Recovering Francis
by SpeakingThroughWrittenWords
Summary: Partner to Discovering Ludwig. When World War ends, Arthur finds his family shattered, his own self wrecked. A friend in need? This is the story of how the misunderstandings of two people over time can come full circle to create a friend of now. #8
1. When Blood Is Water

_Partner story of Discovering Ludwig. Based upon a roleplay between SpeakingThroughWrittenWords and Dancing Feather. Warning: Utilizes both country and Human names.

* * *

_

**When Blood Is Water**

"France said he had a plan, but he would not tell us," he told her.

She did not respond. She never did. He was in a rush. It was rather stupid to be standing in a doorway talking to an unconscious person who could not hear nor respond to his words. But it was a habit not likely to be broken. He could speak to her because of this. He could bear the pain forward to her, because she would not judge him.

And because she deserved to know these things.

"That frog has no idea what he's doing, most likely. I have to stop him before he kills himself. Or makes a fool out of himself. Whichever is more likely."

The former was more likely. Both America and Germany were intolerant of uprisings. He had learned that lesson well. His arm was healed by now, but he had no doubts America would break it again if he gave the younger Nation any reason.

"I'll be back as soon as I can Liz. I promise."

She did not respond. And England left.

He would have similar conversations with her. Someone had to, while Austria was away. She could not be left alone when something could happen to her. When America might suddenly decide she is not worth keeping around. When Germany might suddenly attack her, no provocation or warning of any sort. And England had promised. So watch her he would.

It was because he stopped to inform her that he was too late.

To say the blood was smeared down the hallway was putting it lightly. It pooled down the walls and nearly flooded the floor. England was faintly aware of thinking that no Nation could bleed this much.

The noise of his boots in the blood sounded like it was simply water. It felt like water when he was kneeling in it. It seemed like water as it seeped into his clothing, into his skin like sweat, into his hair as he bent over to try and recognize the Nation nearly dead.

Why had he gone through the motions?

"He's dead, Eliza. He's dead. Nearly. Enough. It can't be possible. He's always been just there, across the water. I hate him. But he's always there. There needs to be a constant these days, with our heroes destroying the rest of the world, with our friends killing us. I hated him, but at least he was there. He's not there."

She stayed silent.

They were allowed to care for France in the same way they were allowed to care for her, care for Romano, care for Canada (the so few times any of them actually were let to see Canada). Let them lie in a room and when they were not being forced into doing what America told them to do they could wash the wounds with their drinking water, staunch the bleeding and wrap the wounds up with pieces of their sheets and hope for the best.

England only insulted France, so instead he stayed with her.

"They finally made their mistake, Eliza. Germany took Lichtenstein and not Switzerland. This is it. This is going to be our break for freedom. Or our grave. Not that it makes much of a difference to you right now."

He did not know how he had missed it. But someone had to stay calm. Someone had to stay sane. With every other Nation falling apart around him, England had to stay calm.

"America... did not do this on purpose."

Japan's words were choked. Japan did not look at him. Japan was not reacting.

"They are still in control. Were. Germany has bombed the refugees in New York."

"You mean the _Holy Roman Empire_!" England retorted before he could react. He could not react to this. Just because there was a reason, just because he was not betrayed, just because he could not tell when the person who meant the most to him needed his help...

"There were no real demands," he told her. "No end goal. They are just doing this to be able to say they have done it. Why?"

She stayed silent.

"There has to be a reason. Terrorists instill terror for their own deluded reasons. What are they?"

Nothing.

"_Say something!_" England shrieked.

Hungary did not say anything, simply continued to breathe. And France did not even do that.

England screamed for a long time. Then he found a gun from Germany's raided weapons storage and went looking for Germany.

Shooting Italy brought back his sanity. Staring down at the wreckage of the once carefree Nation he could see it all clearly. This was utterly pointless. And here England was, making it even more so.

Which was when Germany came. And instead of exacting his revenge... England froze.

Germany did not.

* * *

"_Arthur..._"

"_Llyr..._" His throat hurt, but from the simple fact it felt as though his blood had dried up. He was so thirsty. The fairy was pressed up against his cheek, palms pressed against his face, her face pressed up against the back of her hands. "_You came..._"

"_Roy is here for you._"

"I do not need Scotland's help!" England sat up, the movement practically flinging her away from him, and a resounding crack coming from his hip as he did so. He screamed and gripped at his left leg as if it were the last thing holding him on earth.

"_Please Arthur, please listen to me._"

Despite the pain England rose to his feet and went to discover the state of the world. And despite her words, she left him. He went to see America. Japan had him, China said. China then proceeded to walk away, dazed expression on his face.

England went to Japan, ignoring the pain, the splintering feeling, and the noises which came from his legs whenever he placed weight on them.

"Where's Alfred?" England asked Japan. Japan was crying.

"He just... he is gone. He is gone. During the night, he left.... I do not know. I do not know..."

England opened his mouth to say that could not be possible. America could not be gone. Alfred was too stubborn, too stupid, too...

Young. He was too young.

But nothing came out.

* * *

"England?"

His knock provoked no response. Scotland sighed, entering anyway. He should have known better than to hope, but with Wales consistently saying hope was better than nothing... No, it was all stupid. And he should not be letting Wales rub off on him in any way.

But they were beyond the yelling stages, the calling name stages, the pleading and the questions. Point was that England would not say a word. They would just have to deal with that. England had put a lot of his life into America. Now that America was gone...

Actually, he should not even think that one. If those words slipped out one would have everything in the immediate area promptly thrown at them.

"Oi, crabbit," Scotland tried again as he walked over. England rose his head up from his desk and turned to look at him. "Ai see _now_ Ai merit some o' yer attention." Scotland rolled his eyes.

England only looked at him. Scotland hated it.

"Stop tha'. Ai hae when ye do tha'." England turned, grabbing the computer screen and turning it toward him. Scotland sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose before bothering to glance at what England wanted him to look at. "Yeah, I know o' France's condition." It was hard to miss when a country was going down so fast. Spain could only do so much, caring for Romano, Veneziano, and France. "Wha' o' it?"

England shut his eyes for a few moments before reaching for some papers. It was as if he was forcing himself to grab them – Scotland's first clue he was probably not going to like whatever it was.

"Ye know... if ye stopped bein' so–" Scotland bit his own tongue as he looked at the paper. "Nah. No. No. Yer no' serious?"

England looked slightly annoyed, the closest thing Scotland was likely to get to a 'yes I am serious'.

"Yer an... ye cannae..." Scotland spluttered.

England handed him the phone.

"Oh no. Ai'm no' gonna 'elp ye ruin yerself," Scotland protested, rising to his feet. England continued to hold out the phone. "_Llyr, talk some sense inta 'im!_" Scotland protested to the ever present fairy. She stared at him, almost in a mirror image of the Nation she now never left.

"_Help him, Roy. He will not accept a 'no'. So help him._"

Scotland nearly swore. Mabon settled on his shoulder. "_What do you really think is best?_" Mabon asked him. Scotland nearly squashed him with his hand, but managed to refrain himself.

Then he took the phone.

* * *

_I am putting up the first chapter now just so people can find the story. Hopefully the end of the month there will be more constant updates._

_Oh dear lord, OCs. I hope that does not bother you all. Scotland, Wales, and Ireland will be here, plus a few of the fae folk. I guess this should be another warning: a lot of the story is going to involve the family of the UK plus Ireland. Because I like that image and because I can. Thanks for understanding._

_I do not expect this story to be nearly as epic as Discovering Ludwig, especially as some of what has happened is already known. I am going to write this as if Discovering Ludwig is not out there and will raise points, clarify some things and confuse others as if I have not already answered some of the questions in another story. Hopefully the story will work that way._


	2. When the World Looks Sideways

**When The World Looks Sideways**

It was warm. The comfortable kind. The sort of sun one would search for, to laze about in a hazy mind, not really asleep but not awake. The elusive patch of sunlight which for some reason would feel absolutely perfect. Such a sun as France knew he had not felt in a very long time.

Then he opened his eyes.

The pain came instantaneously and France could not prepare himself for it. It was everywhere. There was no place in his mind to retreat away from it, not even into unconsciousness. He was slightly aware of pleading for sleep. Just to return to the simple feeling of the sun on his skin. Death, even. Anything which meant he was not feeling himself.

Finally he was aware of being forced to drink something. He wanted to slip back into blissful unconsciousness, but he did not. He felt numb and drowsy, but that was it. He found himself staring at a ceiling, another person coming into focus.

"Yer still awake?" Scotland whistled. "Ye've always been an eejit."

"_Quoi?_" France just managed to groan, shutting his eyes again. It hurt to open his mouth, his jaw felt as if it were broken. He heard Scotland move around a bit before the other spoke again.

"'ere, drink this."

France tried to move to sit up, but even the thought of the effort suddenly sent waves of pain coiling through him again.

"Ano'er stupid move on yer part, puddin'."

"Don't call me that," France protested feebly as he drank. He nearly coughed it up however and his mind belatedly warned him against eating or drinking anything made by any of the people who had the gall to actually not really be inside Europe.

"If ye dinnae want ta be called tha', ye shouldn' 'ave lost so many battles against my brother. 'onestly."

England had lost just as many battles against him, but France knew Scotland well enough to know the elder Nation was deliberately trying to bother him and really did not care. France moved again, now that he was not struck with pain with the motion. Not that it did not still hurt, but it did not incapacitate his mind. Scotland let out an impatient sigh as France moved to sit up. He suddenly realized an arm was in a cast.

France nearly looked down at the rest of his body, but quickly had the feeling that he _really_ did not want to.

"How long have I been asleep?" France asked, voice still quiet. He could not force himself to speak louder, but it seemed he did not have to. Scotland let out a low whistle.

"'bout a week," Scotland shrugged. France tried to think of what had happened a week ago. "Bu' ye really weren't doin' much before, ye would jist pass out again. All in all, ye've been out fer eight months."

"Eight..." France gaped, though he quickly closed his mouth as Scotland seemed to be pouring more of that liquid – France desperately hoped that he did not have to drink more of it. "What happened to the war?"

"It ended."

"And...?"

"Look fer yerself," Scotland gestured toward the window. France stared out it, not understanding. Then it dawned on him.

This was England. He was in England's house.

"We won."

"If ye call this winnin'... sure, we won," Scotland pulled a chair over, sitting down and leaning his crossed arms on top of the backing of the chair. "Germany an' America are dead."

There was no pleasure in saying that. There was no pleasure in hearing it. France could care less of what happened to Germany. At least, that was what he could tell himself. But Italy would be devastated. France had the personal belief that Italy should never be hurt. It was utterly pointless to want to harm him in any way.

And Prussia. Prussia was finally coming back into his own. Prussia should not have to deal with such a death right now. France hated Germany. He hated him even more knowing that he still would be hurting people while he was dead.

Yet, there was a part of him that felt a great relief. France decided to go with the feeling. Up until he suddenly processed the rest of Scotland's words.

"America?"

Scotland nodded, pulling out his buzzing cell phone and staring down at it. "As ye can prolly guess, Arthur's no' takin' it well. At all. He... cannae take it. Ye understan'." With that, he stood up. "Git yer rest. Ai'll 'ave some food brought in."

France could not bring himself to protest. Scotland left the room. And the truth of it came.

America was dead.

* * *

"_You could have broken it to him a bit more gently_," Mabon suggested. Scotland stood in front of the study door, phone in front of him as he texted the words. It was better this way, because this way he did not have to see someone who was not going to respond.

"_There's na' a way ta do so,_" Scotland retorted. "_Ye cannae jist say somethin' like tha' an' it e'er be easy. They're eejits. Put too much o' themselves inta ano'er person. An' wha' did they git back for it?_"

"_They were able to enjoy some of their lives,_" Mabon suggested. Scotland glared at him.

"_An' they'll ne'er git it back._"

"_You... Nations and Humans are the only ones who spend time as if it is a commodity. You have made up something to hurt yourselves. You should know better, Roy. How much of yourself did you put into Arthur?_"

"_Why don't ye go tell Arthur his 'friend's' up?_" Scotland shooed him as he opened the front door. Mabon rolled his eyes and left. _Stupid. Like I don't know... Why does he think I said that?_ He looked out and saw Wales walking toward the front door. "Wales! Wha' brings ye 'ere?"

"What doesn't these days?" Wales responded in his slightly crooked way. Just looking at the other always made Scotland feel as if he were standing on a slant. And that was a lot of time spent thinking he was on a slant.

"Ai see yer still sober."

"Well... yeah," Wales said slowly, as he always did. Scotland tried to remember whether he had always spoken like that or whether that was the effect of his long term intake of alcohol. He had known letting England take Wales back in the day was a bad idea. England liked his power too much to give Wales anything much to do, Scotland knew that well. "Not as much fun as I'm told."

"At least now ye can remember if someone's tellin' ye tha'."

"How's... England?"

"Same," Scotland informed him. Wales' face did not change in any recognizable way, but as one could not see his eyes from under his hair that was not saying much.

"Oh." His voice carried his disappointment. Scotland really wished he had something else to say. "Then... what about France? He still... quiet an' all?"

"Actually, 'e jist woke up," Scotland jerked his head back in the direction of the house. "Ai need ta rush off fer somethin'... so would ye mind makin' 'im somethin'?"

"Wha... yeah, sure," Wales responded, obviously not expecting that.

"Ah," Scotland let a hand rest on Wales' shoulder. "The gift o' a Welshman's cookin' bein' the first thing 'e's tasted in months... don't mess it up."

"Oh thanks... no pressure."

"Hello."

Scotland had the common sense to completely freak out at the sudden entrance of the Russian. It took Wales a few moments to turn around and peer up at the Nation. At least, Scotland thought he was peering. Hard to tell.

"Russia!" Scotland coughed, hoping the other had missed the fact he nearly ran back into the house. By the grin on Russia's face, he had not. "Wha' brings ye 'ere?"

"See England," Russia responded simply. "Can I come in?"

"Uh... 'e's not 'ome," Scotland said quickly.

"He's not...?" Wales questioned, turning back to look at him. "Where's he wheeling off to?"

"Ai'm not 'is babysi'er," Scotland scowled.

"Really?" Russia questioned, reminding Scotland why he had lied in the first place. "Zat's too bad." He stood there for a few more moments, not saying anything. Probably just to be intimidating. Scotland hated that, but knew better than to say so.

"Ai'll be sure ta tell 'im ye wanted ta see 'im," Scotland said firmly. He was not giving Russia an opening with this. Russia did not need any more openings. Scotland had never been so glad for Japan until now. At least with Japan around there was someone to physically push Russia back into place.

What did Russia want with England?

Russia frowned. "Vell... _da_."

"Bye." Wales waved at Russia as the other Nation finally began to leave. Scotland hit him in the head. "Ow! What was that for...?" Wales' hands came up to rub at his abused head.

"Don't say 'bye' ta the creepy Russian," Scotland hissed at him. Wales cocked his head at him as if he did not get it. Which Scotland was certain he did not. The Nation was truly an enigma.

But Scotland had too much to loose. He was not going to let his air headed brother accidentally allow himself to be taken advantage of by Russia. He already had one brother about to fall apart.

And Ireland. Just thinking about the red head made Scotland furious.

Stupid Ireland.

* * *

France felt a cool hand pressed against his cheek. Against his raging headache, it felt wonderful. Remembering enough to know that opening his eyes and welcoming consciousness would only ensue in pain, France just lay there and let that hand stay there. When it moved away his curiousity took against the best of him and he opened his eyes.

He was not certain who he had thought it could be, but it certainly would not have been him.

"_Angleterre_?"

England seemed to glide back from him, turning. France tried to sit up, but a dizziness came even stronger than the pain and he found himself still on his back. He tried to tilt his head slightly, eyes able to catch sight of England as the other opened the door.

Which was when he realized England was really gliding. He was not walking. What was... France used his left arm to tilt himself up slightly, the pain slamming into him and causing him to lie back down, but he had seen it. England was in a wheelchair?

"England!"

He could only call softly, his body not allowing him anything more than that. Maybe England did not hear his second call in the other's language. Maybe that was why he shut the door behind him, leaving France by himself.

Leaving him with nothing to distract him from his memories of Germany. Germany suddenly there. Germany giving him no warning, no time to defend himself, nothing.

France could almost feel as if Germany were still hitting him.

* * *

_I am updating now as part of a present for someone who's birthday is today. You know who you are. So, happy birthday you!_

_No definitions, as I assume the small amount of foreign language present in this chapter are words we Hetalia fans know well by now._

_I am attempting to give Wales the musical, present tensed, Cardiff accent, for lack of knowledge of other Welsh dialects. I will try not to screw it up, because it is a fascinating speech to listen to, but it certainly is difficult to remember to write correctly. Wales also speaks a bit slower than his brothers. Either it is because he thinks more then them or because he fried out his brain with alcohol from the long period of time England was in charge of everything. I will let you all just guess about that._

_And I hope no one is offended with this portrayal. I believe near all of the Nations are all alcoholics. And if an alcoholic has nothing else to do, they drink. Simple as that._

_And just so people are not confused, because I think a few people might be... this is not actually the sequel. That will be a different story altogether. Which means there will be four stories in this Universe when I am done with what I have planned now._


	3. Uncomfortably Numb

**Uncomfortably Numb**

"He did that for _me_."

Occasionally he would just repeat these words. For himself. No one would probably know what he was talking about at first, but it did not matter. It was his own sentence. One which made him hurt, laugh, cry, and smile all at the same time.

It told him his brother really had cared. And that was all Matthew needed.

"Ivan, you'd better not be leaving to try for Alaska again, eh," Matthew warned. Ivan stopped at the door, staring back at him with his puppy eyed expression. It used to scare Canada – back when he was more than slightly invisible – but now it was simply strange.

"Vhy do you zink zat?" Ivan asked as if it were not obvious.

"Because you always come back all depressed after another failed campaign, eh," Matthew sighed, grabbing his gloves. "They don't want your government or help, they're fine. Leave them alone, eh."

Ivan let out a drawn out sigh. "Zey don't know vhat zey vant. Vha... You going?"

Matthew grimaced. Maybe putting his scarf on in front of Russia was pushing it. "Out. To see England."

"I tried seeing England," Ivan said.

"I know." He did. Ivan told him right before he did it and right after, perfectly ignoring what Matthew was trying to tell him at the time.

"He vas not zere."

"That was about a week ago, eh," Matthew reminded him. "I'm sure he's home by now."

"Zen I'll go."

"Having you see England for me isn't going to quite make it," Matthew shook his head. "You didn't even ask about France when you were there, eh."

"Zen I'll ask about France. Vhile I'm zere."

"Ivan!" Matthew exclaimed, fed up. "I'm fine, eh! I can go outside! Stop trying to keep me here!"

Maybe that was pushing it, but he stood his ground. Ivan stayed put for a few moments, looking angry, right before he simply looked sulky and slunk out of the room. Matthew groaned, hitting his head against the wall.

Ivan could be a very good friend. Once you got passed the fact he was insane and very clingy. Just another conversation for him and Toris to–

Matthew stared at the wall. Then he finished putting his scarf on and went outside.

* * *

Walking was not as difficult as getting up had been. As long as France was moving constantly he could keep going. If he stopped it would take the same amount of pain to get moving again, but as long as he kept moving, he was fine.

No one seemed to be home. France was not certain what to think about that. What was the state of the world? Scotland only told him so much. And he had not seen England since the second time he remembered awakening. The one time he had seen Wales he had been really too shocked that anything the man said made sense to ask anything.

He felt detached from everything. And he did not like it. He was too much of a people person to be able to stand this solitude, no matter how necessary.

But he understood it. Which was why this was not the reason he was up.

He reached the cabinet, hoping beyond any amount of reason that England had not done any rearranging from the last time he had looked into it. Not that he would hold his breath for that, with as many things as England lost he was rearranging things nearly constantly. But hopefully not this cabinet...

France breathed out a sigh of relief when the small bottles were still all there. His tired eyes scanned through each of the brand names before he found the ones he was looking for. It took him a moment to open it using one hand, but he managed, then swallowing two of the pills quickly. They choked his dry throat. He bent down to drink from the faucet, willing them to work right then.

Oh, swallowing pills was so much easier than swallowing whatever concoction it was that Scotland was making him drink. Honestly, he had always known something was wrong with this entire family, but in not having to deal with Scotland or Wales as much as England, it was easy just to amount it all to Eyebrows. Considering the amount of bad jokes he had to endure from Scotland and the slow pace of Wales' speech, England almost made sense.

He slipped the bottle into his sleeve and headed back to the bedroom.

_I never thought I would dread going to a _bedroom_._

He eased himself on to the bed, as easily as the pain seemed to be easing from his body. And France finally got the most restful sleep he had had since before the war.

And then he woke up to see someone he had not seen since before the war.

"Mathieu..." Francis nearly reached out to him, forgetting his right arm was contained. But Matthew heard him all the same.

"Papa." Matthew smiled, scooting the chair he was sitting in closer to him. "How're you feelin', eh? Can I get you anything?"

"From this household?" Francis chuckled quietly, head pounding as he did so. "Some water would be nice..."

"I've got it!" Matthew was on his feet and out of the room in an instant. Francis sighed, using his less restrained arm to reach into his pocket and take out two more pills. With these, he would have to remember to tell Scotland he did not need that sludge he had been forcing him to take. Remember that.

Once the pain faded away, he would remember anything.

"Here you go, eh," Matthew said as he returned. France ignored the screaming of his nerves as he sat up, Matthew quickly arranging his pillows for him as he took the glass.

"_C'est bon. Ne te tracasse pas,_" Francis assured him as he sipped at the water. Matthew still looked uncertain, but stopped fussing and sat back in the chair. "_Qu'est-ce qui t'amènes ici?_"

"To see you," Matthew responded. "And..."

"England?" Francis questioned. Matthew nodded. "Don't worry, I have apparently been here for months and I've only seen him once."

"I heard... Germany broke his legs, eh," Matthew said, very, very quietly, very much how he used to speak all of the time.

_Germany hurt him as well?_ It was not a surprise, simply a statement of irritation on Francis' part. He did not want to hear about Germany or the people he had crippled. Not now.

"Scotland hasn't told me much of anything, not that he has not tried." Francis moved to set the glass down and Matthew took it from him. "It would help if he went in order... Or spoke in words normal people could understand."

"Well... I could..." Matthew started, but he sounded so hesitant Francis could not in his right mind ask it of the boy.

"Let's talk about something else," Francis insisted. He was prepared to talk about anything, but considering how much there was he had missed, Francis was certain he could start with something less painful to hear. "What about you and Lithuania, hm?"

The instant he said it, Francis knew it was the wrong thing to say. Matthew was not looking at him.

"Mathieu..."

"You heard... what happened to Alfred, eh?"

Francis shut his eyes for a moment, not even wanting to think about this. "_Oui_."

"He cut them off..." Matthew went on. "Kept them from being able to enter my country, eh. He never told me, but that's what he was doing. Despite the bruises, despite the broken bones..." Francis did not want to hear this. Matthew needed to say it. Had he not been able to talk about this? "He did that for _me_."

"_Désolé..._"

The pain had faded away now. Funny, how fine one could think they were when they felt no pain.

"I should be out there for him, eh. I shouldn't have to be sitting around... I'm fine now."

"Out... where?" Francis questioned, wondering what Matthew was talking about.

"Out looking for Alfred, eh."

"_Looking_? But isn't America..." Francis hoped Matthew would understand, that he would not have to finish the sentence. "Scotland told me he was... dead."

"No!"

He said it so promptly and with so much passion, Francis almost believed it. Then he wondered how much of it could be simple denial. No, he would be unable to get the pure truth from Matthew. He needed to talk to someone who actually knew what happened.

"He was just gone, eh. And... why would he stay? After... after what... they made him do." Matthew swallowed, staring up at the ceiling. Then he pulled his glasses off and wiped at the lenses. "I wouldn't want to face people after that. Whether it was my fault or not."

"You and America aren't..." Francis stopped as Matthew stared at him. He should not tell Matthew the truth then. After all, Francis did not know what it was. But he was certain Matthew would not want to hear it. "Why is it you can not go out looking?" he decided instead to ask. Matthew looked slightly annoyed.

"Russia doesn't like me leaving the house, eh," Matthew said. Francis stared at him, very alarmed.

"You are... with Russia?"

"He liberated me and now..." Matthew shrugged. "Don't, papa. Don't."

"Don't what?" Francis questioned, reaching with his left arm and gripping Matthew's wrist. Not that it was hard. He just could not seem to tighten his grip any more than it was right now.

"We're friends, eh. You know this. Nothing's changed."

"Except for the fact you were weakened," Francis retorted bitterly. Matthew sighed.

"He didn't do anything. He's just helped me out, eh. Let it go, I know how to handle Russia."

Francis wanted to protest, but what really could he say? Nothing he said before changed Matthew's mind toward the association. But why was Lithuania not helping him? Obviously they were split up now. How? What had happened? Still, it was the one thing Matthew was balking toward telling him. He was even prepared to talk about America.

What had Lithuania done?

Still, when Canada took that tone France knew to let it go. At least for now. He would just have to learn more to bring the issue up again later.

Francis knew what he was good at and when it was better to wait. Just because some times he did not have the patience did not mean he did not know.

"What is the date?" Francis questioned, letting go of Matthew and leaning back against the pillows.

"The twenty eighth, eh," Matthew responded.

"Of..." Francis prompted. Matthew immediately blushed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't remember..." Matthew cleared his throat. "Of June."

"Then it's your birthday in a few days." Matthew nodded and Francis smiled. "Will I see you then."

"I'll try to come over, if you want, eh."

"If it fits in with your schedule." _If it gets you away from Russia._ "But if I don't... happy birthday."

All of the hardships were worth it when Matthew smiled. It made Francis know that although each of them were very selfish people, he had done a good job with Canada.

"Thanks."

* * *

"_Arthur..._"

He looked up from his desk toward Llyr. He raised up his hand, palm flat toward the ceiling. She landed there, legs dangling over the side of his hand.

"_You cannot just work all the time. Please. Go get some sleep._"

He looked toward the clock. Certainly he was surprised it was after midnight, but it was not so far past midnight that there should be any problem. Except that it was the next day. This day he loathed so much.

He gestured toward the computer and the papers which lay in front of him.

"_Why can these things not wait for the sun to rise?_" Llyr questioned him. He gestured again. She flew down to the table and walked across the papers, looking down at the words. "_You know I do not understand these things, Arthur. These politics of Humans have fallen from terms I can understand._"

He was hoping she would be able to understand, but then again he had not expected her to. There was just some times that he agreed with her. Everything seemed unnecessarily complicated. Still, now that it was these things had to be done. In order for things to get better. Plus he was want for anything to distract him, especially through this time of year. This week always made him sick. Four birthdays, straight in a row, of four people who left him.

It was this last birthday that had always bothered him the most. That much had not changed.

But it was worse now. Why was _he_ not here to bother him? Where was that horrible invitation that came almost every year telling him about a party he loathed to even think about? Why was he not out looking for the perfect present for the Nation who had everything?

Too much of everything. Just not enough of what was important.

From him.

"_Alfred would not want you doing this to yourself._"

Arthur sobbed into his hands.

* * *

He hated waking up to this ceiling, this room, this everything. France stared at it for a few moments before noticing his current visitor.

"Going to stick around this time?" He tried to sound as if he did not care, but with his voice only coming out softly it did not sound like anything more than him saying words. England was not bothered. He held out a glass and set it down on the bedside table before turning around and moving toward the door. "England..."

England left. France could not muster up the energy to glare at the door. He pulled out the bottle with his left hand, and with a more practiced hand opened it and poured out the single pill remaining.

France let out a groan, swallowed it, then grabbed England's horrid concoction and downed that as well.

* * *

"C'est bon. Ne te tracasse pas" = _"It's all right, don't bother._"

"Qu'est-ce qui t'amènes ici?" = _"What brings you here?_"

"Désolé" = "_I'm sorry."_

_Gigi, I want to thank you for the corrections. I am happy that you spend the time to fix the sentences and also give me the reasoning why. So thank you once more.  
_

_Oh yeah, I went there. CanadaxLithuania forevah, baby. Actually, it was something that came up in the roleplay unexpectedly. A random blessing and though not my OTP, it is rather adorable and should be someone's OTP. But I will not say anything else about it, in fear of spoiling your dessert._


	4. Will Not, Cannot

**Will Not, Cannot**

It was hard staying, because England wanted to hit him. Once, hard, screaming. Like he usually did. Well, maybe 'once' never described it. But hard and screaming described a lot of things between them.

England did not have the strength for hard. France did not have the strength to take it.

As for screaming...

When France opened his eyes, he simply shut them again.

"Are you leaving now?" France asked dryly. England grabbed France's medicine and held it out until France finally opened his eyes again to look over. He continued to hold it out until France got the message. The message was that France was going to take this or England was going to spill it on him. He had no qualms with either.

Actually, having to clean up afterward would be a nightmare, but a nightmare worth bothering France for.

France took it and tossed it down as if it tasted horrible. Which England had made certain it did not. Considering how much of it France had to drink, even if England could care less about his taste buds, he had made certain it at least was sweet enough to bear. Easier than swallowing pill after pill, he reckoned.

"Would it kill you to not kill me with your medicine?"

England glared at him. France was never grateful. He had no idea why he was bothering. Well, there were a few reasons. But surely not important enough to have to take these insults!

"_Attend_... England, don't leave..."

England stopped wheeling backwards to look back over toward France. He was actually looking concerned. Not like it should account for much, England knew very well the expertise the Frenchman had in acting, but considering his current condition...

Why was he making up excuses for himself? It was not as if anyone else was going to hear them.

"It is so quiet in here."

He had been in here for months, if only awake for two of them. If one could even consider how often France was awake to be two months. All of his days were spent sleeping. But...

_The world has been quieter, Francis._

"Couldn't we talk?"

He grabbed the soup which he had just brought back, reheated and handed it over. France sat up, taking it and staring down at it with a similar look as he had displayed when drinking the medicine.

"Ah... my tongue will be wonderfully dead by the time I can stand," France said playfully. At least, England assumed he was saying it in such a manner. As if sticking the word 'wonderfully' in there was supposed to veil the insult.

Llyr was laughing from where she was perched on his shoulder. With irritation, England flicked at her, but missed as she flitted away.

"What I meant by talking was conversation," France continued, as softly as ever. "Which would require some help on your behalf."

England opened his mouth.

And shut it.

"Arthur, _please_ don't go..."

England managed to close the door behind him.

* * *

"Ai _see_. Ye come ta meetin's, bu' ye cannae find it in yer 'eart ta see yer brothers."

Ireland turned around to look at him. Scotland must have already been on a roll, because he had seemed to have already pissed Ireland off. It usually took a bit of banter between them at first (or someone asking which one of them invented the bagpipes... America would usually say that to set them off, the blighter) before they would get annoyed and start tearing into each other's throats.

"What's wrong wit' Arthur?" Ireland ignored him to ask his own question. Scotland seethed. "'e won't say anythin' ta me!"

"Join the crowd!" Scotland exclaimed. "Wha' makes ye think yer mo' special than the rest o' us?"

"_Special_?" Ireland repeated, along with that obnoxious laugh. Always loud and long. Ireland used the same description on him, but Scotland knew it was because he could not think of a better comeback. "And what 'bout _ye_? Standin' there – _stoic_. Doesn't suit ye."

"Did ye _miss_ this las' year?" Scotland roared. Ireland threw a punch at him and Scotland retaliated. All he was aware of was the flurry of their fists and legs until someone lifted them both of by the back of their jackets.

"M'tin's st'rtin'," Sweden said firmly, setting them both back on their feet. Scotland rubbed at his jaw, but was happy to see that Ireland's left eye was swelling shut.

"Thanks," they both said at the same time. Scotland glared at him. Ireland glared back.

"Su-san! We're starting!" Finland called from the meeting room. Sweden seemed about to say one more thing to the both of them, but then he started coughing. The hacking cough continued as he returned back inside and to his chair.

"Yer still two bubbles off the centr'," Scotland retorted. Ireland opened his mouth to retort when England wheeled past the two of them.

They both followed after.

* * *

Scotland had brought him a radio. France came to the conclusion he would be eternally grateful to the man, whether he tried to feed him intestines or not. It passed the time. It helped him know what time it was – or at least the day. Day by day would pass and though France could rise to his feet it hurt too much. Though he had managed to go and get another pill bottle, this time completely full.

The less he had to drink British medicine the better off he would be.

The radio turned out to be as much of a curse as it was a blessing. France turned it to the news stations to learn of current world events.

Japan came out the best from the war. Almost surprising, until France remembered that no battle took place on Japanese soil. Not that America had not tried.

The Nordic countries were suffering from extremely cold weather this time of year, not helping the fact each of their economies seemed to have all plummeted very close to depression, though it seemed Sweden had hit that point, which meant Finland, Denmark, and Norway were going to follow after. And once Norway did, Iceland would follow.

China's government had stabilized, but Korea was still practically nonexistent. France felt slightly better about that, because one more cry of bomb from either of the Koreans (_wait, there was only one left..._) was likely to make him want to attack them. Had America forced China to kill Korea? The thought was chilling. He knew China was easily capable. The fact China had not actually done it before was the scary part.

Italy seemed to be in chaos, especially the south. Although Spain was assisting, the damage from the bombs had caused too much dissent and fear amongst the Italians. What all could be done to help when the people one was trying to help were not accepting?

Hungary's government and people seemed to be doing well, though it took a while before France heard the reason why. Austria, of course.

He wondered if they had married again. But none of this told him how the Nations were doing, it simply gave him an idea of how they might be. And right now he cared more about the former. Their personal condition affected him more than this.

Lichtenstein still existed. Well, that told him something. Germany had taken her and not Switzerland? If France had not known better, he would have thought Germany wanted to be defeated. No, slaughtered. No one could even look at the girl without being told off.

Then he found out why Canada had been avoiding speaking of Lithuania. Lithuania, whose forces were wiped out in defending Poland's land from Germany's take over. He had seen Poland during the war, but had no idea what had happened to him. France tried to remember the last time Lithuania's population was so low, but could not quite recall.

His morbid curiousity could not hold him through. He wanted to know, but this simply made him more curious about what was _really _happening. To them. And that made him not want to know anymore.

He nearly turned it off when he heard the one word he had been waiting for.

_America._

A knock on the door caused him nearly to jump as he lowered the volume. No one in this house knocked. Had Matthew returned?

"You look like shit."

"Gilbert," Francis laughed lowly as the other came in. "I hear you are your own country once more."

Gilbert scoffed, walking over and moving the desk chair over next to the bed, sitting in it at his usual angle which always had Francis wonder if he was going to fall out. "You say 'once more' like you're surprised or someding."

"_Jamais!_" Francis feigned his surprise. Gilbert seemed about to hit him, but stopped his hand before he did so. Which was just ample notice that Gilbert was being nice. He must look worse than shit.

"Antonio made me dink you had checket out," Gilbert grumbled. "'_He's not here anymore.'_"

"What?"

"He vas taking care of you, 'til England came to de conclusion he vasn't doing a good enough job," Gilbert informed him. "To be fair dough, Spain has both Italies in his house. Taking care of all three of you vas taking a toll on him."

"Actually, I'm surprised," Francis commented. "That sounds reasonable of him. And we both know how good he is with reason."

Gilbert did not smile as Francis expected. "Gife him a good enough reason, he von't miss it."

Francis thought about everything he had been hearing over the past few days, trying to remember it all through the haze of the painkillers. It was so hard to find the balance. Enough to not feel pain, not too much so as to cloud the nothing going around him.

He reached over and turned off the radio. "What's been happening, Gilbert? No one has told me how everyone really is, just about the people. And that only tells so much."

Gilbert smirked. "Vell, vell... I see someone finally vants to just hear my awesome voice."

Francis rolled his eyes. "Yes. Yes, that is exactly my reasoning."

"Let me dink..." Gilbert sighed, leaning forward and draping his arms on the top of the bed, resting his chin on them as he looked back toward him. "Antonio. He's been taking care of Veneziano ant Romano. Veneziano spents all his time cleaning de house."

"And Romano?" Francis remembered very well what had happened to him. He had the news almost as soon as he had heard that Austria had apparently joined a suddenly territorial-driven Germany. South Italy had protested against any treaties with Germany and Germany had quietened them. He had seen Romano.

He would not blame the boy if he never tried to back up his words again. The sight had been horrifying. He could understand the incredulous thoughts of anyone who had not seen him. France had gone to war for South Italy. But they had not seen him.

"Still not doing anyding," Gilbert responded. "Up ant talking, but dat's practically de only change. Elizaveta ant Roderich are fine. Recovered – you almost voultn't know dat dere had been anyding vrong vith dem."

Hungary had been unconscious since the war began, subdued almost immediately. Francis remembered that. England had spent so much time checking on her for Austria, who would do anything Germany asked of him for fear of her life.

"Luxembourg vas viped out, you might remember." Francis nodded. "Same ding nearly happenet to Lichtenstein, she vas pretty beat up. Stronger dan I dought she't be. Should hafe known – living vith Switzerland made sure she't be tough. Lost an eye. Still manages to look absolutely adorable."

Francis could not imagine it. Lichtenstein managed to stay so clean of everything else, Switzerland dealing with everything for her. To mar the girl must have been the epitome of sin.

"Switzerland spents half de time dinking someone vill try to take over again. Can't talk to him vithout being accused of someding. More dan usual."

"What about Belgium?" Francis questioned. He remembered how Netherlands had given into Germany very quickly – smart considering the proximity and the fact Germany would have absolutely crushed him. Belgium had not, however. Germany had not attacked her first though, but France had been expecting it.

"Shortly before you vere taken out, America... 'convinced' her to stop protesting." Gilbert said America as if it were the dirtiest word he could think of. And Gilbert never balked at dirty words, but it was as if this one was simply beyond him. "She's fine now. Physically, anyvay. Her sister is dead. Vhat do you dink?"

That hit too close to home. _Oh Monaco... Monaco... mon chérie..._

Francis could not say anything for a moment. Germany had done this. Ludwig had done this. Gilbert knew this. Thinking about it all, Francis figured he should simply be surprised that Gilbert could talk about it at all. Germany was dead, after all of this. Always to be remembered as destruction in the day an age where such a thing would be mentally considered hand in hand with going to Hell.

"I... the radio." He paused to look over at it. "And... Scotland said it was because of terrorists. It was all because of terrorists."

Gilbert's face softened slightly. "Alfred couldn't do anyding. Deir first hit killed his President. Dey had complete control of eferyding in no time. I vas vith Russia... ve liberated Canada. Canada told us how he had been attacked ant restrained... rader dan taken ofer. It gave him de chance to fight back. I... dink dat Alfred gave us all de chances he could. All except vhat'd be annihilation to his people."

"What did they even want?"

Gilbert said nothing. Francis felt like screaming. He sighed instead.

"Mind making me lunch? I might die if I have to eat another meal made by Scotland or England."

"_Ja_, vhy not?" Gilbert shrugged.

* * *

It must have been the first time he had seen France in forever in which the man had not hit on him. The two would joke about it, make fun of each other. That sort of thing would be normal. Now, with Francis confined in bed – at _England's_ house – it all seemed gone.

Because of war. Because of Germany.

And he knew he should blame him. Just as he should blame himself. He knew there were a lot of reasons and for each of them he deserved to be pissed off.

One being this wall, which still somehow existed.

Then he saw _him_.

"_Schwarz, schwarz, schwarz sind alle meine Kleider,_" he sang, watching as Ludwig instantly turned in his direction and ran toward him. Ran toward him. For him. He could almost forget that Francis was stuck in bed. "_Schwarz, schwarz, schwarz ist alles, was ich hab._ _Darum lieb ich alles, was so schwarz ist..._"

Almost.

It was not Ludwig's fault.

"_Weil mein Schatz ein Schornsteinfeger ist,_" Ludwig finished the verse with him. They met halfway.

Gilbert grinned.

"Come to see me?"

* * *

"Can I plead for takeout?" France questioned. The glare England gave him said 'no' and the way he wheeled over after that told him quite plainly 'I'll dump this on you instead'. For whatever reason that England was not talking to him, he had to be extremely grateful for the fact he could read some of the other's body language by this point. Specifically his angry body language.

Though he had always preferred reading the seductive kind. Actually, that accounted to almost all of the Nations.

Still, if France managed to get England angry enough, the other would have no choice but to respond. He would be unable to help himself. France had seen it time and time again. This was not the first time England had tried using the silent treatment on him. Though it was the first time France had no idea what could have instigated it. He usually had a guess, no matter how strange it was.

It was England. England was strange. Therefore, the stranger it was, the more it was likely to be the truth.

"Ah! Lumpy... whatever this is." He covered a cough as he sat up. Taking it, he accidentally spilled some of whatever it was on one of his pillows. England scowled at him again, but not for very long before simply pulling it out from behind him. France winced. England looked away.

That was as close to an apology as he seemed to be able to get, so France simply readjusted himself and pretended to eat, paying more attention to his companion.

"How is everything? You probably sleep more at night, knowing I am incapable of joining you~"

The full effect of it was lost because it was still a whisper. France strained to speak louder, but could not. And if he spoke for too long, like he did with Prussia, then his jaw began to ache. Taking more pills did not always remedy this.

England quietly steamed at this.

"You're adorable when smoke pours out your ears. Too bad your eyebrows detract from the sight."

England opened his mouth to retort. And shut it. France suddenly recognized the movement. Which was when it hit him.

England was not choosing to stay silent. Arthur _could not speak._

"I'm so sorry."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, because England threw the pillow at him. But it was so reminiscent of when everything was all right, all Francis could do was laugh.

And England, after a valiant attempt at staying mad, smiled.

* * *

"Attend"_ = "Wait."_

"Jamais" = _"Never."_

_'Two bubbles off the centre' is a Scottish insult. One of my favourites, actually._

_I am _not_ using the same accent for Ireland as I am for Scotland. There are similarities, but I know the differences. And before any Scottish or Irish people get upset, I have a Scottish heritage and I can accept the fact there are plenty of similarities, just as there are plenty of differences between us. And I also happen to know both Scottish and Irish can have intense rivalries. I know people like this. I will try and write it well._

_The invention of the bagpipe is truthfully not known to be Irish or Scottish. I always thought it was Scottish, myself, but that was because I was raised to be proud of my Scottish heritage. Still, I can accept that _maybe_ the Irish actually invented them. It is just something we will never know._

_And I know saying Su-'san' is very Japanese. I have been taking it for granted. Hopefully people do not mind that I keep the nickname in, as used to it as we have all become._

_Yes, I only covered a little bit of the countries and only really in Europe. That is because that was what Gilbert found the most important._


	5. Turning Backwards

**Turning Backwards**

Russia prided himself on being the answer for everything. He was a Nation of many talents and he had always been certain that everyone else would realize that they needed one of his talents and therefore would come racing to him. Russia liked people. Company.

Russia liked a lot of things. Most of which included someone being around. Which was very well accomplished after _красный и синий война_ in which he had failed in completely crushing America. It had been really embarrassing. Plus Russia had never liked the feeling of bullet wounds, especially when up to that point they had been only using their fists.

He had played fair and America had cheated. Russia was hurt. Of course, he should have known better than to play games with America.

Still, in the end it got him Canada. Russia liked Canada. He liked it even better now that Canada was not all over Lithu–

And just like that Ivan felt horrible.

"_Matty..._" he complained, grabbing the other from behind. Matthew squeaked, as he usually did. Why he got so surprised was beyond Ivan. In fact, everyone did. Russia understood it not.

"Ivan," Matthew sighed, not pulling away as he continuously rubbed at the shirt. He tried to not think about how much that reminded him of America. Ivan was more interested in watching the little lights on the wall. "What did I say about sneaking up behind me?"

"But I didn't sneak," Ivan protested. "I valk up normally. It's not my fault you didn't notice."

"How do you get so much grease on your clothes, eh?" Matthew exclaimed, seeming rather fed up. Ivan frowned.

"By vork."

"_In_side an engine?"

Russia skulked away. If Matthew was just going to be all picky about things, he was better off waiting for the Canadian to be in a better mood. But this left him in the rest of the empty house.

_No Toris_.

He thought of bothering China, but had landed flat on his back too many times during the last century to want to try. So he ended back in the laundry room with Canada. This time the other did not jump as he hugged him, head resting on top of Canada's, watching the lights on the wall, and trying _not_ to think of how the younger Nation looked like America.

His grip tightened.

"Ivan, I'm serious, eh. Please stop... what are you looking at?"

"Lights," Ivan responded. Canada pulled away, but only to turn around.

"The lights," the other repeated. "Ivan. You need to sit down."

Ivan did so without question. The lights followed him to the couch, so it was all right. Matthew was muttering something as he wandered off to the kitchen, but he could not quite catch it. Plus, plenty of it seemed in some sort of warped French.

"Take these, eh." Ivan wanted to protest, but Matthew simply shoved the pills in his mouth and shut his jaw. "Swallow."

He did so quickly so he could retort. "Don't treat me like child!"

"Then don't act like one."

The lights went away, along with his good mood. Canada took a step back and crossed his arms. Then, ignoring the fact that Ivan was pulling at his own gloves in warning, he sat down next to him.

"I'm tired. You should sleep, eh."

"How does zat...?" Ivan trailed off. Matthew already seemed as if he were asleep. He almost stood up, but... when had it last been since someone had chosen to sleep next to him?

So Russia grumbled, but stay put.

* * *

France had managed to get all the way to the couch, of which he was rather proud of. Certainly he was tired when he got there, but not exhausted.

He turned on the television with the remote and flipped through the channels. Funny, he remembered the day when there were hundreds of channels all playing the same things over and over. A lot of these were repeats. There was little of America's football. France had never thought he would miss the primitive excuse for a sport.

He found some news stations likely to answer some of his questions.

**"-those who have not died have been watched, but it has been verified that this disease is still contagious, even after eight months of quarantine. We do not know if doctors are any closer to discovering a cure or a vaccine-**

**"-the unfortunate many who were unable to evacuate from Central United States have been dropped supplies. Many of these groups seem to be surviving well, despite all of their misfortunes. The largest group is currently the entire state of West Virginia, who had their borders closed when many of the Displaced that were trying to evacuate turned out to be infected-**

**"-the head of the project is Doctor Saigo Kouki, who it is said might be able to discover what the cause of the disease is by next year-"**

France's finger automatically slipped and changed the channel when England came in focus in his peripheral vision. England at first seemed to be glaring at him, but when France looked over he was simply looking at the television from where he had stopped near the couch.

"_Tell me..."_

"_Tell you what, Sam?"_

"_Tell me what I should do, Annie."_

"I always end up watching the end of your shows where everyone is making out. Or is that really all of what your shows entail?" France asked him. England rolled his eyes and left.

"_Stay here. Forever."_

"_Okay then, I will."_

And the two kissed, just as France knew they were going to.

It was funny, was it not? France tried to remember the sequel show. The man died. That was more like real life. No one could promise forever. Why did they try?

It reminded him of something, but he could not quite recall.

France turned the channel back, but now the local news stations had gone back to local subjects. France was no longer listening to any of it.

_There is still people. The cities. The government._

And he could understand why Canada would insist on America being alive.

* * *

"_Erin is at the door_," Llyr spoke quietly into his ear. England looked up from his book and glanced over at the clock. It was one o'clock in the morning, later than England had thought it was. Which left him wondering why on earth Wales would be here so late.

Nevertheless, he set his book down on his lap and made his way to the front door when he heard the light footsteps inside. His first thought was of France. Then he realized that the footsteps were too light for France, too quick for France.

They were gone almost as soon as England had heard them. He looked to Llyr for an answer.

Llyr shrugged.

He arrived at the front door just about by the time there was a light knock on it. It was a slight struggle to unlock the door, but England managed to have it open quickly.

"Oh..." Wales let out the exclamation. Not that it was obviously exclaimed, but by this point England knew what an exclamation was from the Welshman. "Arthur... I am just wondering... something is happening."

England nodded, waiting for the reason of Wales' journey. It was raining. Not that any of them really bothered avoiding the rain, considering how much it came, but walking out while it was not raining lightly, at night, seemed a little strange to England. Let alone holding some sort of bag which lay on the ground behind him, almost wetter than Wales was.

"My house is... flooding, at the moment."

England knew why Wales was here. And instead of having Erin continue to stand there in the rain, he grabbed his brother by the hand and pulled him into the house.

* * *

"Here you go...!"

France was certain he was still waiting to wake up, because it had to have been years upon years since he had come into England's kitchen for breakfast and have been given food readily and happy.

And never from Wales.

He was certain England was glaring at him from the corner of his vision once more, but by the time he turned his head to see England was no longer looking at him. What could he have possibly been able to do that would get England angry at him now? The man was both insensitive and moody, France knew, but this was overdoing it a little bit. If it were true.

He decided the pills he had taken that morning had not kicked in yet and decided not to think about it.

"_Merci_," France responded, staring down at something which actually looked like food. England seemed to be stabbing at the cockles. France gingerly picked up his fork and cautiously poked his tongue out to taste the egg.

The fact it actually tasted like egg still was good enough for France. He could not help the grin which came to his face as he watched England begin to eat.

"Even you, England, can taste the superior cooking skills of your brother."

England glared at him. "Oh... stop. You're making me blush," Wales said hesitantly, almost making it seem as if he were not flattered by the statement. Not that it would matter much, France decided, because the hair covering Wales' eyes covered his cheeks as well and he was unable to tell if the other was in fact blushing.

"What brings you here so early in the morning?" France decided to ask. Wales and Scotland both seemed to appear at odd times, without asking. Much like France would to people, except for very much different reasons. And for this France had difficulty understanding them. Then again, the entire logic of a 'United Kingdom' had been lost on him when he realized England was not joking about it in the first place.

"I'm..." Wales seemed to actually be thinking about his words, "well... staying over for a bit. My home is a little... wet right now."

France stared at the window, where the rain was pounding against it. "I see."

"Don't just sit there... eat up," Wales said with as much authority as he seemed to be able to endeavor. "Both of you... you have a long way to recovering... you know."

England sulkily returned to eating. France did the same but with much more enthusiasm. Whatever the reason was for Wales coming over, it must have been a blessing for him, because this tasted like actual food.

Wales went to cleaning up, humming something extraordinarily off-key.

"Are you going to finish that?" France asked England. England's hand tightened as much as it was possible around a fork. "Or do you need some help eating~?"

"You seem... better, France," Wales commented faintly, not paying much attention. Which was most likely why he did not react to the knock on the door. England did.

England took his plate and left the room. It took France a moment to realize that England had not gone to open the door. Rising to his feet (and _so very_ glad his pills had kicked in by this point) France exited the kitchen and glanced around.

He heard the distinct sound of England locking his study door, then another knock at the door. France went over and opened it.

"Papa!" Matthew said with surprise. "You're up!"

"Yes, I do happen to look so, don't I?" France agreed. "Come in!"

He assumed he had the right to say so. England was not dealing with it and Wales had not even seemed to notice. It still bothered him. It never had before, but that was before he found himself living here. It was a very stupid time to feel self conscious. France had managed not to have such things ever bother him before, what was different about now that was so much different than any other time?

"You're feeling better then?" Matthew asked as he walked in.

"Very," Francis assured him as he gestured toward the couch. Matthew sat down and Francis settled down next to him. "What brings you around this time? Certainly you could not have missed me so soon~"

"Well..." Matthew seemed to flounder for words, which let Francis know his own words were correct. He laughed, even as it made his throat ache.

"Don't be embarrassed, _mon cher_, I love to see you."

"How's... England doing, eh?"

"He threw a pillow at me, I think he's feeling better." Francis shrugged. "How are you doing? Still with Russia?"

The thought was sickening. Matthew seemed to think nothing of it as he nodded. "He still... sees those lights. Remember?"

"Mathieu," Francis said urgently. "If he's _still_ seeing them–"

"It's not that bad!" Matthew responded quickly. "He just stares out in the distance. It's nothing like it used to be! Nothing at all, eh."

"So he never mistakes you for your brother?" Francis hated to remind Matthew of that, but if it gave Canada back the caution Francis knew he should have then so be it.

"Never." The word was final. All Francis could think about was the rage Russia would explode into whenever he used to see America. After America had very stylishly tried to execute him.

Then again, Russia had an excuse for that. Brain damage by bullet... it was very surprising that Russia lived. It was more surprising that America had not finished him off at the time.

Francis was suddenly reminded that he had not asked Gilbert about Toris' condition. All he had to think of was what he had heard about Lithuania's current population on the radio. And that told him nothing about what else was going on and how the Nation was faring.

"I'm going to go look for him."

"_Quoi?_"

"I'm going to go looking for Alfred. I don't care what everyone else says, I'm going out next week. I know Japan is looking and I know he's doing it with everything he's got, but... he's not enough, eh. Japan's the only one looking."

_Because everyone else is either too injured to go far? Because everyone else cannot conceive seeing him again after what has happened? Because everyone does not care? Because... no one believes he is alive. As the America we knew. He no longer exists._

France knew he believed this.

"I'm sure you'll find him."

And he knew he was lying.

* * *

"Ye're what?"

"I'm... staying here. Arthur says... erm... does not seem to mind." Wales shrugged. Scotland first felt irritated, but that feeling fell short of an overwhelming relief. And slightly disturbed.

"Wha' are ye wearin'?"

"An... apron?" Wales responded, head aiming down so he could look at himself. At least, Scotland assumed so. "I figure I can... you know... help out around the house. Since he and France... are incapacitated and all." With that he opened the door to let Scotland in. Scotland shook his head.

"Ai jist... need ta tell ye one thin'."

"But you are not here to see me..." Wales began, but Scotland spoke again.

"Ai need ye ta keep a canny eye on Arthur, go' it?"

"...what?"

"Listen," Scotland said carefully. "Ai want ye ta make sure tha' Arthur doesn'... do anything'... to 'imself."

"Do anything?" Wales questioned. "What?"

"'urt 'imself. On accident... o' on purpose."

Wales spluttered, the entire idea of it beyond him. Scotland had no idea why Wales could not get it. Wales had been hurting himself for years with his alcoholism. The rest of the world knew he existed, but had forgotten all about him. It was just another form of self-harm.

And Scotland could tell England was on the edge.

"So ye'll watch 'im?"

"Well... I will try–"

Scotland grabbed Wales by the collar and yanked him closer. Wales let out a moan of protest, his words a garbled mesh that told the other Nation he must have let out some Welsh. His other hand pushed up Wales' hair to see those barely viewed green eyes.

"Ai mean it," Scotland growled. "Ye watch Arthur. If anythin' 'appens..."

Damn. He had spent too much of his life on that brat. Mabon was right. He had wasted too much time on England.

_And too much of it was time shooting arrows at him, I suppose._

"I got it," Wales nodded, blinking owlishly. It was strange to see, but in doing so Scotland actually could tell that Wales understood him.

"Righ'." He let Wales go. Wales fidgeted with his coat sleeves.

"Roy... Arthur will not really... he will never..."

"Jist watch 'im, Erin. Jist watch 'im."

* * *

_The war Russia is referring to is not the same World War as this is the aftermath for, it was a war which happened before this one mostly between America and Russia. Translated, I hope _красный и синий война_= red and blue war._

_France really does not think that little of American football, but I can imagine all of the European Nations are a bit miffed that America called it football. I mean really. We have enough trouble in the world without knowing what sport someone is talking about._

_Fake, electronic, cookies for anyone who knows what show France turned it to. It is an old show to them, but relatively new for us._

_To answer your last question, Gigi, I am not taking French classes. I hope to in the very near future, as languages, cultures, and history intrigue me very much._ C_urrently I am asking the help of someone who is learning the language. I love it when anyone can tell me what I am trying to say is and why it is that way. So when I finally do take the classes I can already have a limited understanding._


	6. Forgotten Behind The Headboard

**Forgotten Behind The Headboard**

"_France! Go away!"_

_France laughed, with a few steps and outstretched arms gathering England up into his embrace. The smaller Nation spluttered and tried to push out of his grasp._

(-and it was more difficult to hold him than it used to be. The boy was taller. France was almost shocked to realize it. At the same time, he was very pleased-)

"_If you really wanted me to go, you would not have called out 'France' before you said 'go away'!" France said with glee. "You wanted my attentions first."_

"_No, I never!"_

"_Yes, you so!"_

"_Bloody frog!"_

_England would eventually stop struggling._

(-as he always did. Not that France let up on his grip. He knew very well by this point how England would strike if he let his guard down-)

"_What are you doing here?"_

"_Seeing you~"_

"_That's all you do here."_

"_What else is there to do?"_

"_Are you calling my home boring?"_

"_Only when you are..."_

"_... say that... you..."_

France woke up, his body feeling like a pulse. The pain a dull and constant ache, screaming at him with every intake of breath. He was barely aware of what he was doing until he felt the capsules in his mouth and forced himself to swallow.

He waited for everything to go away. Only the pain did and Francis decided that was enough.

It had been four months since he remembered gaining consciousness. Four months of the sanity-destroying boredom which was consuming him. The radio, the television, the occasional visits from Canada and Prussia (and even Scotland) were not enough to detract from the fact he was driving himself insane. The world had completely changed in his absence and he was simply expected to catch up?

France hated when this happened. But it had never been like this before.

Shaky hands filled a glass with water. He drank it all in a few gulps and refilled it. Finally he was feeling steadier. Like there was still a weight on his chest, but steadier.

Pattering of feet made him turn his head.

"Hello?"

The only other one who walked in this house was Wales, but Wales had a very distinct step. It could not be him. He walked over in the direction of the sound to see someone, but the figure ran off before France could get a better look at him. He moved after, only stopping at the door the other person had been in front of to glance in at what was being watched.

It was England's study, where England was asleep on the settee. France started, seeing the other there. He made very little noise, but it seemed enough to rouse England, whose bleary eyes locked on to him instantly. Despite this it seemed to take him a few moments to glare at him.

"Never went to bed?" France asked incredulously. England pointed up. Suddenly, France remembered where England's room was. He felt like an idiot. He had certainly been here (and in that room) plenty of times, he should have remembered that. "Sleep here now then? I'll keep that in mind~"

England pushed himself on to his back and stared at the ceiling for a few moments before shutting his eyes again. Not receiving any retort irritated France. He had the sudden thought of acting on his previous joke, threat. He did not believe himself capable of holding the other down right now, but then again he did not believe England capable of fighting him off well.

Suddenly France realized what he was thinking.

France got up and left.

* * *

France was walking around. Not even well, but considering his condition that was only to be expected. England wanted to shout at him. England wanted to whack some sense into the bloody Nation's head and make him stay in bed. Of course he should have known better. There was no sense in a Frenchman's head, especially France's.

But he really wanted to shout at him.

England struggled moving his legs, trying to ignore the pain as he pulled his trousers up. He was just getting dressed. Getting dressed should not hurt.

_Getting dressed should not hurt. **Say it**. Getting..._

"..."

England tried to scream.

Noise finally escaped him, but not in the way he had intended. He began to cough. To cough and cough for minutes on end without reprieve. His hands clasped in front of his mouth, fingers almost trying to squeeze his lips together. He did not succeed.

Finally he stopped.

"_Arthur..."_ Llyr pulled at one of his handkerchiefs, trying to bring it to him. Arthur stared down at his hands as some of the blood dripped past his fingers. He stared at it for a long time. _"Use this, clean up,"_ Llyr insisted, panting as she dropped the handkerchief (which could have been a blanket twice over for her) on his hands, covering them from view.

Arthur tried to wipe the blood off, leaving red streaks on his palms and small red flecks on his fingertips. He could hear Llyr's calming voice, even if his brain was not processing the words at the moment.

He licked his hands clean and then wiped them off on a clean corner of the cloth before leaving the room. He washed them in the kitchen the best he could from how he could reach. Then he proceeded to find something to wash the taste of blood out of his mouth. He had not been aware when Llyr had left, but he could tell when she came back. It preceded the sound of Erin's voice.

"You up now... Arthur? France is eating... he's in the si'ing room watching some telly..."

Arthur gripped the sides of his wheelchair and rolled himself back. He remembered Scotland asking him why he had not gotten an electronic one. Even if he could speak he would not have bothered to deem that with an answer. Like he wanted to spend _no _effort during the day. Stupid Roy.

"So I am thinking..." Erin started as Arthur went over to the table, "maybe..." Erin set down a plate in front of Arthur and he tried to keep his ears from burning with the reminder of how much France was enjoying the food (just to annoy him he was certain), "we should go out."

That was not what he was expecting. He stared up toward his older brother in confusion. Llyr landed on the table in front of him.

"_That sounds like a wonderful idea! Does it not, Arthur?"_ she said happily. A trilling laugh came from near Erin and if Arthur squinted he could see the white form of Nerys.

"_Absolutely lovely! Go out!"_ Nerys crooned her words, legs kicking back and forth from where she was perched on Erin's head.

He was not as thrilled with the idea. He was busy. There was too much work to be done and not enough time to do it in. Too many things on the path to recovery. And not merely his recovery, everyone around him. The entire United Kingdom. France. The sooner he could get the other out of here the better he would feel.

England returned his attention to eating.

"See... the fairies think it's a good idea..." The way Erin stated it almost made it seem as if he was uncertain about it as well.

Arthur shook his head, covering a cough.

"Why not?"

For one second, he was grateful he could not speak. Arthur did not want to say he did not have a reason to not want to go out. To not want people to have to see him like this more than they already did. He simply looked at Erin.

"Come on... it'll be fun!"

"_Going outside would be relaxing,"_ Llyr agreed. _"Go with him!"_

England returned his attention back to eating once more.

"I will get you out soon, Arthur," Erin sniffed, looking rather dejected. "You... you just wait."

England could not help but look up after Wales as the other Nation left the room, the usually upbeat Nerys looking rather forlorn where she was still sitting on Wales' head.

He coughed.

"_Make Erin, of all people, sad,"_ Llyr said, slightly irritated. _"Who would it hurt? If you went, what would be so horrible about it?"_

There was nothing keeping him here.

The thought was rather frightening until he specified '_here_' as '_inside_'.

The other frightening thought was that he even had to remind himself of that.

* * *

Scotland could be here. If he was here, Ireland knew all he would be doing was to be causing trouble. He could remember so well fighting to get out of this place and promptly loosing some of his rights to do so from a drinking contest. It was this house. Funny, how none of their houses fell apart around them as they watched the buildings they were older than crumble about the ears of the Humans.

Ireland usually did not like thinking about that, as he did not want to seem as stiff as Scotland was about time. Scotland who would still leer at England for wars long since past. Not that England was much better. In fact, their little brother was much worse.

True, France did not make it easy, but it was still childish.

"_Says the one who swung the first blow at Scotland at the last meeting,"_ Boda snorted.

Ireland waved the fairy away.

"_You are not expecting a conversation, are you?"_ Llyr sounded irritated. Ireland had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed.

"_Jist a talk with England... not fer 'im ta say anythin' back,"_ Ireland assured her. Llyr's bottom lip stuck out, not in a playful pout, but as if she were considering his words. Ireland wondered when the fae folk had become so serious. They used to joke and tease even through death. Everything they viewed so differently._ "Roy's not in, is 'e?"_

"_No, he is not."_

"_Good."_

"_Brian." _Her tone was what stopped him from knocking on the door. _"You stand to gain much if Arthur dies."_

"_What?"_ Ireland had every reason to be outraged. Fairy or not, he would not accept such words from _Wales_, let alone anyone else.

"_You and Roy could profit from your brother's death,"_ Boda rephrased Llyr's words. _"Here to kill him?"_

"_D__ún do bheal,"_Ireland spat.___"Kill Arthur? Yer crazy."_

He was expecting Llyr to laugh and tease him about it, something that would make the conversation feel real.

_"__Not that he needs your help."_

_"__What?"_ Llyr shot up into the sky, but a quick reach and grab had Ireland with the fairy in hand. She bit his palm, but he had dealt with worse. He carefully gripped her wings so she could not leave, holding her up so he could see her face as she struggled.___"Don't ye ____**dare**____ joke 'bout this. Ai don't even ____want ta know what ye think Ai'll gain. Don't ye ____**ever**____ sai that again."_

He tossed her over his shoulder, not paying any attention to where she flitted off to after that. He did notice Boda had left as well.

Ireland gritted his teeth and rang the doorbell.

* * *

If England could have laughed, he would have. Instead he settled for hitting Ireland in the head with the book he had been reading.

"What was...?" Ireland scowled, rubbing the back of his head.

For a while, England had been very worried about Ireland. The recession he went into when England had dragged both Wales and Scotland into war had nearly turned into a depression and he had been fighting off the cold for a long time. Scotland might not have been paying attention to that, but England knew very well. If he could have afforded to, he would have sent some soothing tea.

Then there was the Displaced scare. Somehow someone from Wyoming had managed to get into Canada and then take a flight to Ireland. Without any knowledge of whether the man was infected the entire city he had entered and the airport had been closed.

With all of these reasons England was not going to be irritated Ireland had not come to see him until now. He did believe himself to have reason to become irritated that Ireland did not feel like explaining himself to Scotland. Honestly, the three of them fought so much it was ridiculous, but if Ireland could tell England... England bloody well was certain he could tell Scotland too.

Ireland could be such a pillock.

First covering his cough, England rolled himself back slightly, grabbing a tissue and setting it down on the table. He wrote in black ink and held it up for Ireland to see.

**just tell Scotland, you bloody oaf**

"Why?" Ireland exclaimed. England folded the tissue up and put it in his pocket, thoroughly ignoring Ireland.

The fact he could have used this to communicate with people so much sooner was somewhat of a shock. Had he deliberately not tried to think of it? Was he trying to cut himself off from the world?

The answer to this was so obvious, so stupid, that England found himself spiraling back into his depression.

* * *

He should not be walking around so much. It made him ache even more than what the maximum amount of pills he was taking could cover.

The remembrance of the light footfalls made France wonder if he were going crazy. Because _obviously_ it was not a fairy (because they did not exist, and even if they did they were even lighter then that and preferred to fly) but that did not mean England could not have someone else running through here. A child?

England did have a penchant for collecting children over the years, but France would have known by now if there had been another Nation created. Prussia would have said so. Prussia was the newest country – whatever his name was to be now. No, if there had been a new Nation, a child Nation, France would have found out by now. It had to be someone else. Who?

Nevertheless, his slow moving pace finally took him to England's study door. He knocked on it lightly. There was no response.

"England?" France questioned, voice as soft as ever, opening the door. For once, at this point in the evening, the door was not locked.

England threw an empty bottle at him. He was not strong enough to hit him with it and it rolled near France's feet.

"You've been drinking, how typical," France snorted, looking over to the man in the wheelchair.

England's mouth was opening, closing, his neck was strained as if he were yelling at him only to be interrupted by occasional coughs. The coughing was not loud, but compared to everything else which escaped England's mouth it was deafening.

"I don't suppose you've saved any for me," France said, slightly mournful. He did not know when to speak. He did not know when England was trying to, or when the other's mouth was simply just still. He walked over to the other as England took another swig of his barbaric ale. "That's all right, I would rather have a _blanc de noirs_."

England sneered and coughed again. France tried to extricate the bottle from England's hand, but in that respect England had him beat. France did not have enough strength to pull it out of England's firm grip.

_You should not be drinking, not while I cannot join you. Not while it is not fun..._

France bent down and grabbed England's wrist with his free hand, letting gravity use his weight to keep it pinned down.

And he kissed him.

England protested at first, his free hand beating against him for a few moments before he gripped the front of France's shirt to pull him further down. Both actions were painful, but France did not stop. He felt England moving up against him, his tongue and lips reciprocating, bottle dropping out of his other hand.

The glass clinked against the floor. France felt the remaining liquid pour out of the bottle, pooling under his left foot.

It had been too long.

France let go of England's hand so he could stroke England's hair, then tracing the other's jawline with his hand. Scarred skin, so many scars he could remember touching, he could remember making, and new scars he did not recall at all. Down his neck, collarbone, chest...

The kiss tasted like blood.

France pulled back to see England's hazy eyes still trying to comprehend what was happening.

_"J'aimais votre goût..._" Francis whispered to him, his words practically silent because of the effort.

Arthur tried to kiss him again, but began coughing instead.

_You miss these things too, do you?_

Francis left.

* * *

"D_ún do bheal" = ____"Shut your mouth." Irish. If anyone happens to know Irish...!_

"J'aimais votre goût..." _= "I used to love your taste..."_

Blanc de noirs_ is a white wine made with black grapes. As my knowledge of alcohol is limited, that is really all that I believe need be said._

_For the few wondering (and the one correct guess, Gigi!) the show was indeed 'Life On Mars'. Glad to hear someone knows of it!_

_Any guesses as to the mysterious footsteps? This time the first person with the correct answer will get... erm, something. I will write you a drabble about whatever you want, I suppose. I am very open with requests._


	7. Requiem of the Red Dragon

**Requiem of the Red Dragon**

It had been a very long time since he had seen Wales so ecstatic. It was a bit annoying, especially when Wales would take a hold of the bar on the back of his wheelchair and push him around. England wanted to protest, or at least put on a hat which hid his identity from everyone, but finally just gave in.

It really had been a long time since he had seen Wales so happy. It picked at a scab that England had not even known existed. Back when he was taking care of Wales as if the other was his younger brother. Back when Wales would come to him to ask questions, permission, and run off as if he had not a care in the world other than to get along with him. How long ago was that?

When had Wales turned into an alcoholic mess? England had not even noticed. Too busy paying attention to the rest of the world, too busy taking charge of home.

"I love these li'le stores," Wales said with affection. "All these baubles and things... no one thinks twice about them. They get rid of them... and they look like they have so much put into them...!"

England was rather inclined to agree. He was a part of the entire chain. Small things which would mean nothing to anyone else, some he would get rid of. Then he would come to an antique shop and buy something which would mean absolutely nothing to anyone and it would become important in some way. Some day in the future he might forget enough to get rid of it, or force himself to let it go. And the cycle repeated.

It could be an analogy of his life, really. Something suddenly thought it meant nothing to him and would go off to be important to everyone.

England tried not to think about it. He covered a cough with his handkerchief.

"Look at these shakers... Arthur..." Wales held them up, almost like an excited child. England fought a smile. He succeeded when he saw the cruet set.

_Roses..._

"I remember... you like roses," Wales continued to babble at his slow pace. "Planting them all the time... ever since France, remember? Giving you that large bouquet... It is all you speak about when it happens."

England choked on his tongue, because there were no words to stumble over.

Wales had been drunk for a long time. It had been a long time.

_Giving me flowers, telling me I was the only one... God, I was so young and stupid._

A very long time.

He took the salt shaker out of the cruet and stared at it for a while before setting it back. Wales put it back on the shelf before taking a few more steps in a different direction. England wheeled himself out of that particular section as quickly as he possibly could.

He was looking at some bells when Wales caught up with him. "Arthur... doesn't this butler's tray look like... the... one... in my..."

Just like that Wales' smile was gone. England looked from him to the tray clutched, now tightly, in his hands. He reached out and let his hand rest on Wales' hand. Wales continued to stare down at the tray.

"I... I shall get it."

England knew Wales was not going to get it. Suddenly he wanted to speak again. He wanted, beyond anything, to just be able to say something to Wales right now. Writing would not cut it. It was not the same.

Instead, he pointed. Wales looked up and slowly over.

"Funny... seeing one of those here." England gestured once more toward the old thing. Wales went over to inspect it. "It is... missin' some strings. Otherwise it's doing really well..."

England wheeled up behind him, grabbing his wrist and leading his hand to rest on the strings.

"Oh... I have not been playing the harp for _ages_, Arthur. I shouldn't..." England could tell Wales did not want to protest. The idea seemed to appeal to the Nation greatly as his other hand graced the other side of the instrument.

He had forgotten how beautiful the harp could sound.

Before they left England payed for the cruet set.

* * *

France was trying not to think of England (_of the blood he could still taste_) when he heard those footsteps again.

He stayed put, as if he were asleep on the couch. Curiousity was eating away at him, but so was his exhaustion and restlessness. Very conflicting feelings which caused to to have to force himself to stay still. He had been rather hoping to fall asleep and put all of those thoughts out of his head, but now...

He swallowed two more capsules and waited to hear the footsteps vanish through an open door. As they did not seem to, he rose to his feet silently and made his way toward the sounds.

The child started but France grabbed him with his useful arm before he could run for it. The other struggled, but it felt like nothing. The Micro Nation had no real strength, not against Nations.

"Lemme go! Lemme go, you creep!" Sealand yelled. France stared down at him, not certain whether he should be relieved or annoyed at the other's intrusion. Sealand was not usually someone that anyone noticed, after all. His very existence was laughable. Still, he had managed to sneak into England's house and had done very well in not being noticed.

"Who are you calling for help from?" he asked. Sealand stopped, somehow hearing his quiet voice, as he thought about it. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you care?" Sealand asked. "This isn't your house!"

"And it is not yours," France agreed. "So on our equal grounds of visitation... I care because I have been staying here."

"I know that," Sealand said crossly. France chuckled

"I answered your question."

Sealand pouted, pushing once more at France's arm. "I... was just lookin'."

"For England?"

"_No_!" Sealand denied it vehemently. "Just looking around an' stuff. See how things're goin'."

The child lied so obviously that France could not retort. Sealand was worried about England. The brother who cast him out. Funny, how this family who had only ever attacked each other would come to protect each other now.

Then again, back in the day fighting was so natural. Now it was monotonous. Now it hurt more than just physically. Winning used to mean something. Now it just meant you were not dead.

"You should not be sneaking around," France mentioned as he let go of the other, who quickly ran forward a few steps and turned around so he had made some distance between them. "People can be very suspicious after wars... not like you would know."

"I know perfectly well!" Sealand said quietly, staring at the ground.

How were Sweden and Finland? How was Belarus?

"If you know so well, you should know better," France rolled his eyes and left for the kitchen.

"Wait, France!"

He turned to face the boy who had so ever wished to become a Nation.

"Don't tell Arthur!"

"Alright then."

France did not know whether he would tell England or not. But it seemed to satisfy Sealand, who ran out of the house.

Funny, how small the world was now and even so it was easy to forget parts of it.

* * *

It was probably the worst part of knowing fairies. They were friends if one believed in them, no matter how strangely they would show it (strange by Human standards, Scotland knew he could never understand them and had accepted that). They were curious when it came to death. They mourned their dying. They celebrated their dead.

So whenever Scotland would show up and see the fairies in such a mood he would suddenly think the worst. Right up to the point he remembered cell phones.

Ah, the pest of all existence, cell phones. Someone would have called. He would have known. If someone was dying, dead, he would know right as it was happening.

America was not a very good example of any of this. But America always had fancied himself made out of a different mold. Of which he would have been right. Not that it mattered.

"Feelin' be'er?"

England, who was looking down at a salt shaker in his hand, looked up at him.

"Ai'll take tha' as a 'somewha'," Scotland shrugged, leaning back against the wall. "France givin' ye any trouble?"

England rolled his eyes and Scotland could not help but grin.

"O' course 'e is..." he repeated words he knew would have been there if England could speak. "An' Wales? 'e's na pushin' ye 'round too much, is 'e?"

England snorted. Scotland chuckled.

"Did nae think so."

After a few moments of scribbling England lifted up the pad of paper in front of him.

**anything new lately?**

"Communication?" Scotland rose his eyebrows. "Arthur, Ai'm surprised a' ye!" England threw the pen at him. Scotland caught it. "Anythin' new? Not really. The Nile is startin' to flood in the spring now."

England glared at him.

"No? Well, Ai suppose Egypt woul' be makin' some actual noise if tha' happened. Big developments since the las' meetin'? Nothin' ye prolly haven't 'eard. Ye 'eard o' Italy? 'e's actually out of the house an' goin' strong. Nice to 'ear 'im recoverin'."

England nodded, staring off at the window. Scotland felt his stomache rumble and stood up straight. "Ai'm stealin' some o' yer food."

Arthur shrugged, not very interested.

"Nice cruet se', Arthur," Roy commented as he left the room. He did not miss Arthur's stricken face. Well, his little brother should have known better before he bought something which would be such a sensitive subject.

He just had to look out for the fairies. Wait for them to return to normal. Wait for them to return to normal without a sudden celebration of someone they would miss.

* * *

"Hungry... France?"

"Yes, please," he responded quietly, watching as Wales wandered around the kitchen. It took a while to realize that Wales was actually walking with any sort of purpose, but France still did not know whether Wales was doing any of that on purpose, or whether it was all just on a whim. If that was the case it would explain a lot about the Nation. France did not believe it was nearly as simple as that.

Still, he was not about to pry into the one person who could cook in these islands. France could only make so much of his own food with one hand.

When would his arm heal?

He let himself lean against the counter and watched Wales cook. Watching Wales cook was much different than watching England cook. England seemed to concentrate as if it were the most important thing in the world, as if he were willing it turn out correctly. Wales did not look as though he cared much about it.

Though France was getting a little sick of sea food. At least it was food.

"You seem... much be'er now," Wales commented. "Good for you."

"It helps having something to eat," France smiled. Wales stopped to stare at him for a second.

"Now... I think you're just trying to be mean."

France's smiles could sweep most people off their feet, especially if they did not know how often he used them. Wales was one of those people. France found himself rather put out. "What do you mean?"

"You are... always saying that," Wales explained, going back to the stove. "I think you're just saying that... to annoy Arthur."

"Have you tasted England's cooking?" France asked, shocked. Wales thought about it.

"I... like Arthur's cooking."

France nearly gagged, but managed to at least turn his head away first. _"C'est probablement le concept le plus effrayant que j'ai jamais entendu._"

"Whu...?"

"Oh, nothing," France waved it off. "Forget about it."

Wales stared at him. Or seemed to be. France really was wondering if the man even had eyes.

"I'm... watching... you..." Wales said stubbornly.

France tried not to snicker. "All right." Wales gave a curt nod and went back to cooking. France reaffirmed a previous theory that everyone who lived on these isles outside of Europe was rather insane.

"Wales, why do you help him?"

This question was taboo. This question was horrible. This question was hypocritical. And France was asking it for the last reason alone. Maybe if he heard someone answering it he would understand it when he did the same thing.

"Help who?" Wales questioned, facing him once more.

"England."

"He's my li'le brother," Wales replied with little thought. France nearly laughed. He had spent a lot of time pretending to be England's older brother. Of course, that was before he realized that the reason why England was so against it was because the two brother's he had in the north who fashioned themselves as his older brothers actually _were _his brothers.

"So?"

"Yeah..." Wales nodded. This time France did laugh.

"You don't even feel like defending your claim, _étrange_." He slid his hand under Wales' chin to turn the Nation's head his way.

"What?"

France kissed him so he would stop tasting blood.

Wales hit him. It took him a while to comprehend that. Wales actually _hit_ him. Hit him and ran off. The second thing he noticed was that it had not really hurt.

Which left France wondering which he should be more curious about – the fact the action had upset Wales so much or the fact Wales' fist had not hurt when colliding with his recently broken jaw.

"'ello, puddin'."

France grimaced and rubbed at his jaw. "I told you to stop calling me that."

Scotland chuckled and lifted the top of the pot on the stove. "Mmm... Tatws Pum Munud..." Scotland dipped the ladle in and pulled it up, blowing at it for a few moments before sipping some of it. "Where's Wales?"

Scotland's punch _would_ hurt. France shrugged.

His jaw started to hurt.

And he could still taste the blood.

* * *

The small lull in the rain was over. By the time Scotland left he was feeling rather stupid for not having brought his umbrella. He could have taken one of England's, but the last time England had bough an umbrella was a few hundred years ago and those things were such a pain to even open.

"'ere."

Scotland pushed some of his sopping hair out of his eye to see the red head, who shoved the umbrella in his hand.

"I'm... sorry," Ireland mumbled, before he turned and left, running through the rain.

Scotland watched him as he often watched his brother. With irritation and a little bit of grudging adoration.

Mabon was laughing. Scotland flicked him.

"My bro'ers are insane," Scotland lamented to the crying sky. Where was Wales? He had not seen the other while he was there. And then he realized something.

_Damn. Does that mean I have to apologize to that stupid Irishman?

* * *

_

"No! No! It is not me! I haven't done it!"

A part of Wales wondered if this was an overreaction. The rest of Wales was content to react. Either way the Nation was freaking out, only a little short of a full blown panic attack. Running down the muddy hill, sliding down after falling, ending up covered in brown with the rain still coming down not to wash any of it off, but to simply make everything wetter.

Wales had long ago come to the conclusion that without England there was no use for the Nation who used to spend all time out on the edge of the water. No use at all. Without England, there was nothing.

Staring down at the water which came up to the roof, Wales sobbed, arms wrapping around torso as if holding tighter would keep everything together.

When had there been such hydrophobia? A long time ago. When the realization came that Wales was useless without England.

Wales hated to see England sad. Wales hated it when England was hurt. France usually caused one of those. At least, that was what Scotland had said, when the haze of the alcohol had finally left. France and England circled each other so often...

Wales could remember that. It had been going on so long it was something Wales could actually remember.

The only person, the last person, Wales could remember telling anything to was England. But tell England this?

Wales stared down at the water and cried.

* * *

_People can proceed to make their 'France is a jerk or not' related comments now~_

"C'est probablement le concept le plus effrayant que j'ai jamais entendu." = _"That concept probably is the most frightening that I have ever heard._"

"Étrange" = _"strange one."_

_Hey look, Wales' weird way of talking is more noticeable in this. I hope no one got completely lost when the Nation failed to speak in past tense. And Wales' hydrophobia is about large bodies of water, not in drinking it or the rain. Not until it becomes the depth capable of drowning someone._

_First time writing Sealand... I hope I did not utterly botch him up. Anyone who guessed Sealand (which was quite a few, but I will take you all in because I love you!) can send me their request for a drabble! No worries, it will not make updates on this story hesitate at all, it will simply give me some other things to do when I have a bit of writer's block._

_And yes, I did mean to mention Belarus there. Why? You will find out, though most likely only by the prequel._

_For anyone curious about the time... this was a piece of November for our lovely Nations._


	8. You Got No Mistletoe

**You Got No Mistletoe**

_Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock_

_Jingle bells swing and jingle bells ring_

_Snowing and blowing up bushels of fun,_

_Now the jingle hop has begun..._

England found that he had to be ever quieter than he usually was to escape his house. The house seemed suffocating now. The fairies were driving him insane. Sometimes he would leave his study to find that Scotland was sleeping on the couch. Sometimes he would leave his study to find that France had fallen asleep at the dining table. Sometimes he would leave his study to find that Wales...

Wales had been quiet. Ireland had seen Wales' house and told him. The water was finally receding.

Scotland would leave every time Ireland showed up. Scotland was an idiot, even more so than Ireland.

And those footsteps were haunting him. Llyr would apologize, she did not know what the footsteps were. He could not blame her. The fairies were in a different realm of understanding. A lot of things Nations could see nothing else in the world could.

England felt as if he was the only one keeping everything together. Scotland being stubborn, Ireland busy having to deal with his own island, France spending more time asleep than awake, and Wales' was suffering depression caused by his flooded house. England had to keep going if the rest of them were not.

England did not want to keep going. All he could think of was that America hated the winter except for when it was Christmas and that he would make all of those treats which looked like they had been recently nuclear...

And that _damned song_.

_That's the jingle bell,_

_That's the jingle bell,_

_That's the jingle bell..._

_Fuck you America. Fuck you._

The reason he chose to go to Strasbourg was because of some comments from his boss. It made England consider how France had been lately. Walking around too much, though not with too much ease. Still it was without wincing in pain. Right up until the last few weeks, where France had just been sleeping. Probably having to make up for the effort.

That was what rational England thought. The irrational part suddenly found himself worried that France was going to collapse again.

Which was why he was now being subjected to Christmas in Strasbourg. Well, it was better than Christmas in Paris. That brought back too many memories. Memories England did not need right now.

_Fuck you Christmas, bugger off_.

Like hell he was going to be buying presents.

Not like he could think of what to get anyone anymore. All of his ideas had drained out of him, much like his blood. One hacking cough at a time.

It was becoming dark when he wheeled back out into the cold air, wondering why he had bothered coming. Everything was fine here. Listening to the French, everything seemed to be progressing at the same rate as it had always been in all of France. Improving, little by little.

And then he saw him.

England stopped breathing...

...and his heart simply stop beating.

_Germany._

England stood up.

"Happy Christmas!"

And with that it suddenly was gone. England saw a blond haired boy across the way, with blue eyes. Tears blurred his vision and for a moment, if he nearly closed his eyes...

He could see Alfred.

"Happy..."

Arthur wanted to remember what it was like to be happy.

The German boy held out a box that he had in his hands. "Happy Christmas." England fell back into the wheelchair, barely able to remember when he had stood up. He was crying as he had promised himself he would never do.

"_Merry Christmas England!" America smiled, awkwardly carrying the present before shoving it into his arms._

The boy set the box down for him. England found himself coughing, but he did not remember when that had started either.

"What's... What's your name?"

He could talk. And for some reason England did not even care anymore. He looked up at this boy who reminded him so keenly of the person who had ruined his life, of the person who had been ruined by one of the most important people in his life. England wiped the blood off of his lips with his handkerchief.

"Ludwig. Ah... New Germany, but no one calls me dat."

He wondered why that was the case.

"Enjoy... your Christmas, Ludwig." _Because someone has to. Someone has to be all right._ "Enjoy all what you can." _For however long it lasts._ "You'll never know..."

"_You've always been... well," Alfred cleared his throat, staring down at his own gift. "You've always been weird. And it's taken me a long time, but... I know you just meant the best. I know you just wanted the best for me. And you thought that was with you."_

"...when it will be gone."

"_Maybe it still can be."_

He decided to drown himself. At least until he wondered what constituted a '_Happy Christmas_'.

* * *

It was late and England was not home. Wales had been fidgeting, muttering about things in Welsh so France could not tell what it was about. He could tell Wales was scared though. So was France, though he was not exactly certain what of yet. Wales would not stay in the same room with him. And England was not home.

Francis had taken three pills and gone to sleep on the couch until the sound of the front door awakened him. The fact he heard no footsteps affirmed the fact it had to be Arthur. Francis got to his feet as quickly as he could, only to realize that it was not quick at all.

_I am still in pieces._

He entered the kitchen, where Arthur had gone to, to be met with Arthur on his feet. "Arthur? What are you doing?"

Arthur was clutching the table for dear life, so as not to fall back into the wheelchair he had been in for so long. And all he did was stare at him. Francis berated himself as an idiot for asking and made his way to Arthur's side, putting his hand on Arthur's shoulder.

"You should sit back down."

Arthur snarled, a leg whipping out and kicked the wheelchair. He almost fell over and Francis knew if Arthur did he would be unable to keep the both of them standing. But the wheelchair glided across the floor and out the doorway. He nearly opened his mouth to say something, but from Arthur came the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

"_Je ne veux pas_!"

Francis found himself unable to think for a moment. "_Mon cher..._"

He held Arthur as close as he possibly could. If he shut his eyes, he could almost pretend that this was years upon years ago when something like this would happen. When they were no where close to falling apart.

_I want us to be like we used to, mon ami._

But he wanted to kiss him again. And he nearly did make that same mistake.

Arthur gestured down to a box on the table. Francis found himself taking a chocolate instead. And in his head he could hear that song. That song which had repeated so many times during the last Christmas he remembered.

_What a bright time, it's the right time_

_To rock the night away..._

Damn America.

* * *

"Bought me presen' yet?" Scotland grinned.

England rolled his eyes, which either meant that was a stupid question because he had, or that was a stupid question because he had not. Either way England did not want to hear it. Scotland ruffled up the other's hair and heard the sound of protest.

Heard _sound_.

"Arthur?"

His brother glared at him for a bit longer. "What?"

Roy stared at him for a long time before engulfing the Nation in a hug. Arthur tried to fight him off for a few moments, but easily gave up. Yes, it had always been easier to hug Arthur when the boy was unable to run away.

"Ai was beginnin' ta think Christmas miracles were outdate'..." Roy said honestly. Arthur let out a weak chuckle.

"Apologized to..." Arthur covered a cough. "Apologized to Brian yet?"

Just like that England had managed to ruin the moment. Scotland pulled back, looking down with irritation at him. "Apologize fer wha'?"

"Fighting instead of looking for yourself."

Scotland thought about that, tuning out England's cough. Looking for himself? Why, when Ireland could just tell him? If he had just given out a good excuse they could have dropped it. But instead they fought and...

And Ireland had apologized. Scotland mentally cursed himself. Well, _now_ he _really_ had to. He hated feeling like an idiot and had a pretty good idea Ireland would shove it all in his face when Scotland finally did apologize.

"Ai think Ai like' ye be'er when ye were quiet."

England started laughing and Scotland did not care that England knew it to be a lie.

* * *

France was always very happy to see Canada. He had let the other know that. What had not seemed to get through (_was Matthew really that thick?_) was that Russia was _not_ welcome. He really doubted England wanted to see the other, but England had continued to stay quiet. He could talk, it just usually caused him to start coughing. Considering how long France knew he had been quiet for, it was no wonder. Maybe in time things would go back to normal.

Yes... that was a laugh.

"Merry Christmas!"

"Da... have good Christmas, locked up in England's house."

"Ivan! What did I say, eh?"

At the same time of his worry, France could appreciate the humour of Russia pouting because Canada told him off.

"Oh, don't worry... I will," France smiled up at the Russian, letting the both of them in. Canada shut his eyes and let out a sigh, but did not comment. France was glad he did not. For some reason he was not in the mood to defend his commonplace comments.

"This was the only time we could find to come," Canada went on to say as France led them to the living room, he turned down the volume on the television. "The snow's been killer, eh. It finally let up enough for us to get out..."

"Stuck in the house then?" _With Russia_. France mentally pleaded that Canada realize what a stupid idea that was, but knew by this point that would be folly.

"For the most part," Canada shrugged, setting a box on the table and motioning for Ivan to do the same with his larger one. "There's plenty of times the weather let's us go into town, so it's not as if we're lacking for things to do."

"Matty's fault," Russia snorted, looking rather sulky. "'Only go out vhen it's _safe_.'"

Canada rolled his eyes, but shot France a grin. "Ivan doesn't have a concept of when it's a good time to go out, eh."

The fact Canada only found that funny was probably what finally changed France's mind. No, he did not like the fact that the Nation he raised was with Russia, who still had something with collecting Nations when he could, but the fact Russia was actually _listening_ to Canada...

Maybe there was some hope for the Russian yet.

France stared down into the boxes and pulled out one of the presents. "You brought a lot of presents, Matthieu."

"Some of them are from Russia," Canada rushed his words in. Russia pulled a face.

"New Year presents," he clarified. "Because I _must_ give presents zen."

"_Ivan!_"

"Well, well... if you insist!" France smiled, setting it back. "Sticking around for dinner?"

He watched as both Canada and Russia looked at his broken arm and then over in the direction of the kitchen.

"Actually... we best get back before we're snowed out of the house, eh."

France managed to swallow his laugh. But considering how often Wales cooked now (of which the thought made him feel very depressed), he was not going to make Matthew suffer through England or Scotland's cooking. Maybe if he could have gotten Russia too... no, not even Russia. He would not set England's food before his worst enemy.

Except if it was a sandwich. France was shocked to realize those were edible... as long as England had not cooked any of the ingredients himself.

"Arthur in the kitchen?"

"_Oui_."

Canada went to the kitchen to give his Christmas greetings, leaving France alone with Russia. Russia keenly looked as if he would have rather gone with Canada, but fixed his sights on France.

"Hope you feel better."

Not what he was expecting. France both felt slightly guilty and more suspicious. "_Merci. _And... thank you for keeping Matthiew company."

Because while Russia could be bad company, he was still company. And after what had happened to his brother, France realized that Canada really needed someone there. Someone to take care of him and someone whom he could take care of.

In that case, Russia was the perfect Nation for Canada to be staying with.

Nevertheless, when Canada and Russia left, they left him thinking about dinner and Wales. France did not usually find himself feeling sorry for coming on to people, but Wales was one of the few exceptions. In fact, it tended to be a trend for this family. The only one France had ever come back to was England.

For God knows what reason.

He entered the kitchen, where England was once more on his feet. The wheelchair still sat there at the table, inviting the moment for when England's legs would fail him. Which would probably happen before England actually made it to the wheelchair, if he thought about it. England was really pushing himself too much. He had mentioned it once, but England had not taken to that kindly.

"Arthur..."

And as soon as the other's names left his lips Francis realized that he was not exactly certain what he wanted to say.

He wanted to tell him that he had kissed Wales. England would be irritated, he knew, but France had the feeling that once he had told England he could actually go and apologize to Wales. For some reason he felt horrible about it. Maybe it was because Wales did not cook for him as much any more, but that would only be one reason. Maybe it was because being punched was an action of England's, back in the day, when England was not trying to kiss him. Maybe it was because he missed the idiot's goofy smile and completely strange words which made no sense to anyone.

He wanted to talk to England as if not everything had completely gone insane. As if they were not spending Christmas here just because they had not gotten an obnoxious invitation in the mail from one of the Nations they had raised together. As if something in the world was salvageable.

But he still felt tired. It was ridiculous, he was better. He was healing. He should not be so exhausted. Francis opened his mouth to say something like that.

Instead he found himself pressing Arthur back against the counter and kissing him. Arthur let out a surprised squeak, arms around Francis' neck, though more likely to make himself feel stable on his feet rather than for anything else. Francis did not care.

Arthur's mouth still tasted like blood, but Francis could not pull himself away.

Arthur finally did, out of oxygen more quickly than he, slight coughs escaping him.

"Francis..."

"Arthur... _s'il tu plaît_... don't–" _Don't fight me?_

"The meatloaf's burning."

France blinked, pulling back from England to allow the other to return to the oven. England did not look back at him. France was somewhat aware of the movement on the other man's shoulder, as if someone very small was standing there, and the intent look on England's face as he listened to someone that France could not hear.

France returned to the other room, somewhat in a daze, to hear that same stupid song on the television.

_What a bright time, it's the right time_

_To rock the night away~_

France growled and threw the remote at the television. The remote missed, but the television turned off as the remote hit the floor. He pulled the pill bottle from his pocket and swallowed.

* * *

"...now that 'e's apologized I 'ave ta buy his Christmas present. Eejit. 'e should 'ave done it earlier, when I 'ad time, or later, so I'd 'ave an excuse not ta bother."

It was a strange complaint, but it was all done with a certain about of humour. England just felt relaxed that Ireland and Scotland were past _this_ argument. Now they would probably go to something else. Like their Christmas presents. There was not a year that the both of them did not buy each other prank gifts. It was almost annoying, except they thought of new ones every year.

"You could always just give him a card that said that," he suggested, covering his cough. Ireland snorted and shook his head. If it were Scotland, he would have considered it or at least pretended to. Ireland had always seemed (to England) to have a better head on his shoulders.

"I don't want ta think 'bout what 'e's doing." Ireland's left hand came up and took his glasses. Ireland's right hand extricated his glasses from the unruly hand, wiped them off on his shirt, and returned them to his face.

Scotland was probably buying something unexplainable for the other Nation. England absolutely refused to ever willingly go Christmas shopping with Scotland. Ever.

Ireland left him to browsing through books. Leaving him to think.

England really did not want to think right now.

France had kissed him. In retrospect, England really wished he had punched the other, recovering or not. He had no _right_ to do that!

And it reminded England keenly of a certain document he had signed, a document he had not told France about, a document detailing things England really did not want to think about. Maybe France did have a right. Maybe that is what made it worse. Not that any of this explained his own reaction...

_Francis, you twat. Leave me alone!_ Oh, how he really wished he could mean that.

England pulled a book off the shelf, opening the cover and letting the pages fall over each other.

He would give this to Ludwig.

* * *

"_Ah... Merry Christmas, New Germany-san."_

"_M-merry Christmas to you... Japan."_

"_I apologize for interrupting your holiday."_

"_I'm sorry! You vouldn't hafe hat to help dem if I vasn't around, I'fe only been trouble since I came here, I didn't know dat you vould be bodered as vell and I–"_

"_Ge–New Germany-san!"_

"Hello..." Wales said, slightly hesitant, staring down at him. "Can I... help you?"

"I apologize for intruding so late," Japan said quickly, bowing down in greeting. "May I ask if England is in?"

"Oh... right," Wales nodded, turning around and shouting. "Arthur! Your... Asian friend is here!"

With family like this, Japan was curious why England was not more strange than he already was. It almost reminded him of his own family. Except for the fact England liked his brothers. Japan could not stand the Nations who tried to claim that right.

Wales turned back around to look at him. "Come in!" the brown haired one said brightly, moving out of the way.

"I'm sorry."

"For... what?"

England wheeled up behind Wales, tapping the other in the back. Wales jumped, babbling something before walking off. England rolled his eyes.

"Merry Christmas," Japan held out a box. England shifted, pulling out a small package of his own and handing it over. "How is France?"

England seemed blank for a moment. His mouth opened, shut, then he shrugged. Japan decided that must mean France was doing better. Better enough to incite irritation from the Englishman.

"I am..." _Going back to America's. I am still looking for him_. Who else believed America was still alive? Italy only would ask about it because of a firm belief that things had to get better now that he knew Ludwig. No one but he believed America was still alive. And England? Japan was not quite certain. England probably wanted to believe, but whether it stemmed from a denial of hopelessness or actual belief of the possibility, Japan was not certain.

England nodded and leaned forward to pat the package he had just put in Japan's hand.

"You will be the first to know."

It was the only promise he could make.

* * *

"Canada! What a surprise."

Canada noted how Estonia did not ask why he was here and was grateful for it. The fact Estonia did not mention anything about the situation simply told Canada everything was the same. No better, maybe, but at least no worse.

"What brings you here, eh?" Canada asked as he came in. Estonia looked over toward the dining room before returning his gaze to Canada.

"We are going to Finland's Christmas party," he admitted. "Poland still is not finished with the cookies he decided to take."

"Going to be late?" Canada could not help a smile. Estonia nodded, sighing.

"Try leaving _before_ he's ready," Estonia responded, a little stiff as he tightened his tie. "Tino will understand."

"How is he and Sweden?" Canada inquired. "Sweden's cold any better, eh?"

Estonia hesitated, then nodded. "Only because Finland's health is making up for it."

Canada felt his stomache turn. Of course that would happen. Really, after America attacked Sweden and Finland came out of nowhere... Of course Finland would do all he could to fix Sweden's cold, even if that meant getting sick in the other's stead. The two went back and forth like that, Canada could not understand how both could keep it up.

"Oh my God! Estonia! Why didn't you say we had company?"

'Paint an inch thick' was usually considered to just be a line from Shakespeare's play _Hamlet_. With Poland now, it was literal. Canada wondered if Poland knew how fake he looked.

But he could understand. Poland would rather look fake than to have to look in the mirror at all the evidence of the war which marred his face.

"Canada! Like, what a surprise!" Poland exclaimed, standing the the doorway. "How have you been? I'm making cookies right now, you can totally have some of the extras! I've made a batch of everything, I think, and I'm, like, almost finished with the last ones. We're going to Finland's Christmas party – it is going to be better than everything. You should come! It'll probably be, like, the best Christmas party ever–"

Poland's jaw snapped shut. Thankfully before Canada strode over and shook the other until he shut up. Canada did everything he could not to say anything.

_Better than everything? Better than Alfred's parties, you mean. That's what you were going to say, wasn't it? **Wasn't it?**_

He managed to keep his tongue in his mouth until the urge to scream out passed. "No thanks, Feliks. I have to go back and make sure Russia isn't off trying to take Alaska again. I'm just here to see Toris, eh."

"Oh." Poland blinked. "He's... in his room."

"Thanks."

Canada left Poland and Estonia before either of them might say anything to him. Before Poland said something. Something comforting, something apologetic, something soul bearing. Canada did not think he could deal with it.

He had meant to ask Poland once more if Russia could come and see Lithuania, but he had forgotten. Poland was only going to say no and Canada could not think of anything to say which would convince him otherwise.

"Toris...?"

Toris did not turn toward him. Matthew stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against it. The lights were not on, the room only illuminated by the light coming through the window. He looked to see what Toris was looking at.

Toris had painted the walls. He still had the brush in hand, his front covered in black and white and grey. The shades spilled from the wall to the ground and across the carpet in front of him. Nothing but black and white and what the shades made between them.

"Toris."

"It's so colourful," Toris said whimsically. "I can see." He reached forward with a hand and trailed a finger through the paint, streaking the light grey through the black until it was only black once more.

"Please say something to _me_," Matthew found himself pleading as he had the last time he had seen him. As he knew Feliks probably did every day.

"I wish I was the colour." Toris pressed both open palms against the wall before squatting down and reaching for something.

Matthew took a few steps over and reached for Toris' shoulder.

"I'll be a sunflower."

His hand hesitated. Toris smeared black paint over his face. It covered all of the bruises and cuts and scars.

Matthew burst into tears once more.

* * *

"Je ne veux pas!_" = "I won't!" And that is the truth behind that scene in Chapter Nine of __Discovering Ludwig__._

_Thanks again Gigi. Every time I begin to learn a language I go through this... I take a lot for granted in the English language.  
_

_As for last chapter, I am glad with what people have come up with about it. No, France really should not have kissed Wales. But he did, partly because he is France and partly because he is France in the situation he is in. As for peoples' confusion about Wales' reaction... before spending so much time drunk, Wales can remember a time when England had practically claimed France for everything and everything. Back in the day when they were bothering each other at every other step. I think it is obvious why Wales really does not want to be involved in that._

_Plus, there is that certain *coughmarriagecough* document. Definitely _not _something anyone wants to be involved with._

_Ireland! For those who want to know, I do not have a character for North Ireland. You know why? When Ireland left the United Kingdom he and England got into a drinking contest and England won Ireland's left arm. It bothered Ireland, but not his arm. Yes, chickies, Ireland has alien hand syndrome. If you do not know what that is, look it up, but I think it should be somewhat obvious by the name. His left arm is North Ireland. Ta-dah._


	9. All Of This

**All Of This**

"_Where were you?"_

_Francis sighed, staring over at the furious Nation. "_Je suis désolé..._ Everything is becoming–"_

"_I don't want your excuses!" They had barely said more than fifteen words and they were already exasperated with each other._

"_Tell me!"_

"_Tell you what?"_

"_Tell me what I should do, Arthur!"_

(-this happened so quickly, so often. There used to be the days when he had been able to keep his temper, when Arthur was not so angry with him. Francis wondered what exactly he was doing, what he was doing wrong-)

_Arthur stared at him._

(-those words escaped him so easily-)

"_Stay here. Forever."_

(-where else had he found his inspiration to become solely the country of such words?-)

"_Chéri..."_

_Francis knew he should say that such things were impossible. He knew he should tell Arthur that they could not. He knew he should tell him he wished he could._

_But he did not. Instead, he kissed him. Arthur's arms were around him, relishing in this._

_Francis' grip tightened on Arthur's waist. One hand slipped up, the other slipped down._

**Mine**.

France startled awake, hands gripping at his head, muttering words which he would deny to anyone else of having ever said. France waited for his heart to settle back in his chest and for his mind to think beyond the haze which was currently hanging over his consciousness. He waited while his body went through the motions he had been going through for months now, only stopping when he found himself standing in front of the mirror.

He must have taken the sling off during the night. Flexing his arm experimentally, France found that he felt no pain. He really did not feel much of anything, not even relief at this development. This horrible feeling made no sense. Finally he had the use of both his arms, he should feel better.

"_Il est temps de se remettreau travail__._"

There was nothing France wanted to concentrate on. So he took some more pills.

And he felt better.

* * *

"Papa."

"Matthieu!" Francis said happily. Matthew did his best to smile in return. When he saw Francis' left arm free from its sling it was much easier. He let himself be engulfed in a light hug. The grip was very weak, but it was so much more than before Matthew could only be grateful.

"'ello ta ye too, Canada."

"Hello Scotland," Matthew responded. Scotland rolled his eyes as if he did not care, but gave him a grin as he went up the stairs.

"How have you been?" Francis asked as he sat down at the table. Matthew sat down as well, fidgeting with his sleeves. "How was Christmas?"

And there came the word. Matthew felt his stomache coil up and he tried in vain to ignore it. He could not, not anymore. He had not told Ivan because Ivan would only react. Matthew really thought he could deal with it on his own...

"I went to see Toris."

He said it and the rest just seemed to follow.

"It happened right before the war, actually. We both agreed we were better off just as friends... no hard feelings, eh."

Francis nodded, but understandingly stayed silent.

"He was trying to come to help me during the war... Ivan told me. But when Germany and America attacked Poland he... he was there. And now he..." Matthew's voice failed him and he rested his arms on the table, staring down at the wood surface. "I spent a lot of time wondering why I was not jealous that he wasn't there for me as quickly as he was for Poland, eh. A lot of time."

"That was not what was most important," Francis agreed. Matthew nodded.

"He just speaks nonsense now, to no one. Poland, Estonia, and Latvia have all been trying their best, but... he hasn't changed at all, eh. He hasn't gotten better."

"Matthieu..."

"I just..." Matthew rubbed between his eyes and finally looked up. "Everyone was finally noticing me. I thought everything was going so great, eh. And then all of this. All of this. What do I do?"

It was really an unfair question, Matthew realized. Francis had been trapped in this house for months and months, probably asking some of the same questions to himself. It was so easy for Matthew to hope and think that the older Nation had some of the answers he had never had to ask for before.

"Your best," Francis responded. "Whatever you think that is. We can't really do anything else, can we?"

"But what if I don't know what I think that is?" Matthew insisted. Francis stared past him for a moment. Matthew blinked and turned, just missing whoever it was who had just been standing near the doorway.

"We guess." Francis sighed. "Never forget, we're only Nations. We are not perfect. And it is always going to be a long way to whatever it is we want." He paused, as if his next thought was a surprise to him. "Which does not mean it's unattainable."

Matthew stayed quiet for a while.

"_Oh mon Dieu__..._ I just justified some of Russia's actions, didn't I?"

Matthew just managed to nod as his laughter caused him to double over.

* * *

_Which does not mean it's unattainable_.

Even through the haze which seemed to be increasing in France's mind, the truth of those words had managed to pierce through. He needed to stop _not_ trying. He needed to. He took some more pills to make the haze go away. So he would be able to try. So he would be able to think it through correctly. Just because he had been trapped inside for so long did not mean he had to forget his diplomacy.

He needed to get out. Go _home._ But first, he needed to fix a few things.

"Wales? May I speak with you?"

Wales turned around slowly, then continued to turn around so that he faced away from France once more. "Maybe... why?"

"I wanted to apologize."

With that, Wales turned around once more. "Oh...?" It sounded as skeptical as Wales could really manage. France felt slightly awkward with this conversation, but did not let any of that out. "For... what, exactly?"

"For kissing you. I had no right." Wales would not be very interested in his reason for it. France was not even certain about his reason for it.

England had tasted like blood and he had wanted the taste out of his mouth. But France kissed him again, despite his previous thoughts. England was doing a very good job at ignoring all of this – and him when he had the chance.

"You be'er be," Wales responded, almost as if he were scolding a child. "You... have no right to do that to Arthur."

"Do what?" Wales did not know about any of that, France was certain. Not unless England said something, but France was absolutely certain England would not have mentioned it. Not that it mattered. He and England went on and off so quickly, so often, sometimes France did not know whether he was supposed to be taking his things out of England's house or whether he was bringing them back. Or, frankly, why he was bothering.

"You two should just... get over yourselves," Wales went on to comment, turning away from him and returning to his dusting. "Not that the pills help... much."

"What?"

"All those pills... you have been taking," Wales drawled as he reached up the bookcase. "I think... you are taking a little much, aren't you?"

"No!" France corrected. "It's just easier to take pills than it is to take either of your brothers' concoctions for pain relief, you know. Not everyone likes England's cooking as much as you."

"Oh... all right."

France found himself waiting to defend himself against more claims, only for Wales to go back to his off-key humming. He left wondering why on earth Wales would think he was taking too many pills.

* * *

Arthur looked over to Llyr immediately as he heard the footsteps. He knew both Erin and France were asleep, Erin only after asking whether Arthur was sure he did not want his room back now that he could walk. Going up the stairs did not seem daunting anymore, but he was not going to displace Erin until Erin could return home.

So another night found him sitting up, reading past midnight, listening to the ever recurring footsteps, with the fairies unable to tell him anything about the sound.

He returned to his book, trying to concentrate on the passage in front of him.

_'We all have our sorrows, and although the exact delineaments, weight and dimensions of grief are different for everyone, the color of grief is common to us all.'_

Step, step, step.

Arthur set the book down. He almost just went to the couch so as to try and sleep the footsteps away.

But why? Why was he asking Llyr about the footsteps? Why did he not try and discover what they were for himself? Arthur mulled over those thoughts. Why was it that he did not want to figure it out for himself? He was not the type of person to make anyone else do what was deliberately his work. Why had he not tried to figure it out for himself?

And why was he finally trying to go to bed when he had failed to do so many hours before?

All of this. All of these questions had answers and Arthur could not think of them.

_I am awake at night when no one else is around, when I do not have to speak... even though I'd hoped to regain the ability to do so before... what is wrong with me?_

Step by step he left his study, holding himself close to the wall. He saw the faint shadow slinking away, toward the front door. Arthur grabbed for something, replaced it when he saw it was fragile, and picked up something else instead and threw it.

When his cell phone hit the figure he knew who it was.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"Peter... what the hell?" Arthur grumbled, walking over to the wannabe Nation. Peter's eyes widened.

"Woah... Erin said you were, but I..." he stared up from where he was crouched on the floor. "You _are_ talking again!"

"Answer my question," Arthur demanded, pulling Peter up by his hair, ignoring the protests and 'ows' that escaped the child.

"Jerk!" Peter cried out, finally managing to pull away, but only because Arthur let go of his hair. "I can come here if I want!"

"What? No you can't," Arthur denied. Peter stuck his tongue out at him.

"By the fact that you don't consider me as a Nation, you cannot say I am trespassing. You can't say I'm anythin'. You can't even really say I'm here. So I can go wherever I want."

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but found himself at a lack for words. "Brat. Where'd you come up with that one?"

"Natalia said I could use it," Peter said rubbing at his head where Arthur had hit him with his cell phone. Arthur shivered. The last thing anyone needed was for anyone to take advice from Belarus. He sighed, leaning back against the wall.

"Why are you here?" The biggest surprise was that Arthur found himself not minding. Peter's presence had always bothered him, a brother he had not known about suddenly coming into existence just to get away from him. He did not even have time to mess up this relationship, it already was.

Yet here they were and Arthur already knew the reason why Peter was here, even if the boy would not say it. He knew and for some reason it did not surprise him. There was a distance between them, but Peter was still here despite everything that had gone wrong.

Which is when he understood.

_Distance... gone wrong..._

"Went too far west when I was goin' home."

Arthur nodded. "Need a ride home?"

Peter shook his head. "Nah... I'll walk."

"I take it you don't want Sweden and Finland to know you are out so late?" Arthur smirked, coughing into his left arm. Peter did not smile.

"Tino's coming down with the cold Berwald's got..." Peter told him. Arthur stopped smiling.

"You got your Christmas present, brat?"

Peter sniffed, but was past it in an instant with a smile. "Sure!"

All of this was hard. Arthur was becoming very good at distancing himself from people because of it, because he expected everything to become worse than it already was. Like away from Kiku. Away from looking for Alfred. Afraid that if he went looking he would discover that America was truly dead.

All of this was keeping his mind occupied while he kept himself from sleeping. If he slept peacefully, he would have to let it all go. He might not wake up.

Arthur did not want that.

In the end, everyone might leave him. It did not mean he could not wish the best for them when they were gone. He would just have to last that long.

The depression was not gone, but it was not going to control him anymore.

* * *

"Let me ge' this straight."

"Um... yeah...?"

"The eejit kisse' ye, which proves 'is bad taste..."

"...hey!"

"Took months ta apologize 'bout it..."

"What do you mean I'm a bad taste?"

"And neither o' ye 'ave told England?"

Wales stayed quiet from where he was perched, sitting on the part of the hill which was dry. Scotland wondered why he had agreed to this – to be knee deep in water and salvaging what he could from Wales' house. What he should have done was push Wales into the water and tell him to deal with it... but...

Well, it really would have helped if Scotland had known Wales was hydrophobic when he had to sober him up during the war.

He leaned against the window frame, staring outside to where Wales was. "Well?"

"I think... that about sums it up, yeah."

"As our dear bro'er might 'ave said once: '_Codswallop_'," Scotland snorted, before drawing away from the window and continuing on his search. Wales had not lost as much as he might have thought. Considering there was not as much here in the first place... at least, nothing that Wales had anything to do with for a few hundred years. As long as he did not see some of it he would not miss it. And Scotland would salvage what of it he could.

He opened another window.

"Tell England," he shouted his advice. Wales picked his chin off his knees and cocked his head.

"Why?"

"Because 'e'll wanna know!" Scotland said the obvious before returning to work once more. Honestly. One would think that _he_ was the only one in this family with any sense at all! All of this was ridiculous.

Which is when he saw the most horrific sight known to Celt-kind.

"_**No!**_"

"What? What?" Wales was calling. Scotland reopened the window and cried out.

"Ai left my _bagpipes_ 'ere!" Scotland sobbed, looking back at the wreckage of his beautiful instrument. Wales started laughing at him. As soon as Scotland got out of the house he went over and punched him.

* * *

England hated cleaning. This reason was probably why he lost so many things, because even though he could keep organized, over a long period of time his basis of organization changed and he would forget what it was. Therefore, everything would turn into a mess. A mess England would have to clean up. Which he hated doing.

Still, it was unfair to make Wales do everything. It was England's house. So England decided to get to work. Something to do on his feet. Something to take him up the stairs.

It had really been too long since he had done something which was instantaneously productive.

"England!" came France's surprised voice. England looked over and was struck by the fact France looked like he was a bit more than just awake. "You are upstairs! And the stairs did not kill you? What a surprise."

France's attempt of teasing him (or whatever he was doing) had little affect. England was too busy staring at him. "You're dressed up."

"Yes I am, aren't I?" France looked down at himself, pretending as if he had only just noticed.

"In my clothes."

"Well you have plenty and have left me with little of my own. You weren't wearing them. Unless you'd would rather trade~"

"_You_ have plenty," England protested, covering a cough with his left elbow.

"I will when I go to my house."

"No." The word escaped him before he could formulate more of a response. His reasoning, the purpose of it all. It was not as if England was saying it just to be spiteful. There were plenty of reasons why France should not go out, should not leave this house yet, most because of France's health and his lack of energy. _(One for a marriage license he might find out about while out there..._)

"I'm touched by your attachment," France began, with his ever 'ass-hole' personality, "but I need to go _outside_, England. I'm going stir crazy just sitting in this house. I need to get out."

"No, you don't." Actually, France had good enough reason for wanting to go out. England just did not want him to. At least, not until he could explain himself.

_I married you because there was no other option. It does not mean anything. It hasn't meant anything, except that you aren't dead. You can leave and go home soon and I won't ever care to see you again. But until then, we just have to deal with each other_.

He wanted to say something like that. But it started with admitting it and he could not seem to say it.

"When you actually feel like giving me a reason," France shrugged, starting down the stairs.

"No, you–"

England's legs felt weak for one moment. He was falling. He found himself falling into France. France caught him. And he found the both of them falling down the stairs.

England's mind felt fuzzy, the first thing he was able to tell was the blood in his mouth. He could not bring himself to worry about it, not when he could feel the tear on the inside of his lip which was the source of the blood. Sore, the left side of his hip was probably going to hurt for a while once more, but...

All worry for himself vanished when his eyes focused on France.

"France? Francis? Damn it... Francis?" England gripped the front of the other Nation's shirt (his shirt) and pulled himself above him. "Francis?"

"Arthur, stop... I'm fine," Francis responded, sitting up.

"You just fell down a flight of stairs!" Arthur retorted. "You're _not _all right!"

"You fell down a flight of stairs as well," Francis pointed out. Arthur put his hands on Francis' face, trying to keep Francis' head still enough so he could check for a concussion. Or another break of his jaw, though he was talking a bit too much for that.

"You can't be fine, you have to be in pain..." Arthur insisted.

"Your lip is bleeding..."

"Oh no! My _lip_!" Arthur said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Francis! You really have to–"

Francis kissed him. Arthur blamed the fall for rattling his brain, because instead of fighting him off he once more found himself kissing the Frenchman back.

Francis had always been an amazing kisser. Arthur kept his hands on Francis' head, though they slid back and gripped his long hair. Francis' had a hand on the small of his back, the other stroking beneath his jaw and down his neck.

Francis pulled back and Arthur moved forward to close the space between them once more. Francis let out a small moan, but whether it was from the kiss or from the surprise that he landed flat on his back Arthur was not certain. Arthur was not certain of a lot, because it was very easy to loose track of time in this position – on top of Francis with the other undressing him and his own hands not in less compromising positions themselves and tongues fighting for dominance.

It must have been after so many more kisses and so much more touching that England reminded himself that _he did not want this._

He had to remind himself a few times before he could stop.

"France... ah_, Francis_! Mmm... sto..._ ah... _Stop."

"_Quoi?_"

Arthur managed to pull himself off of France, the other Nation looking surprised as he sat up once more. England tried not to flush more than he already was, buttoning his shirt back up. "I... no. I don't want this."

"_Angleterre..._" France began to protest, but England shook his head, getting to his feet. His hip was hurting like anything, but he ignored it.

"Stop kissing me France. Don't touch me. Don't. Understand?" He coughed, a hand placed in front of his face. "We were over a long time ago, so stop it. Don't ever touch me again."

He stumbled off to find his wheelchair before he fell down.

_I don't want this. It's not fair. We're proven ourselves incompatible. Everything I just said was so hypocritical. But it is true, we cannot do this anymore. Damn it... I'm such an idiot._

All of this was confusing. England tried to remember what was right and came to the conclusion he was doing the right thing. He really did not want this. Yeah, that was it. That was the truth. It was.

And it was not fair to France. Especially as England had not yet told him they were married.

* * *

"Je suis désolé" = _"I'm sorry."_

_"_Il est temps de se remettre au travail" = _"It's time to get back to work."_

_The book England was reading was 'The Thirteenth Tale' by Diane Setterfield._

_For those curious, this is Feburary. Next chapter will be in February too.  
_


	10. First Your Truth, Then Mine

**First Your Truth, Then Mine**

"Oh, dear... I see I have come at a bad time. How... typical."

England sighed, picking a chip off his plate and biting into it. "How did you find me?" Wales shrugged. England knew he should have guessed that to be the answer. He gestured over to the seat across from him and Wales hesitantly went over and sat down. England ordered some tea for him. "On me."

"Oh... no, you do not have to," Wales shook his head. "Um... England..."

England was beginning to remember this detail of Wales. Not that Wales was ever a 'up and in your face' type person, he was usually somewhat nervous, but when he started fidgeting like that it meant he actually was nervous about something. "Yes?"

"We need to talk... about France."

England groaned and pushed the plate away from him, appetite gone. "How about we don't?"

"I am not saying want," Wales protested. "I say 'need'. We... need to talk."

England sighed, rubbing at his neck, which was sore from falling down the stairs. "What is it then?"

"It... back in November."

Wales said it as if that was a fact. England waited for something else to be said. Wales stayed quiet.

"Oh... kay..." England nodded. "November. What about November?"

"Erm..." Either England's retinas had broken or Wales was blushing. England was not certain which one he would rather have it be. "France sort of... well... we kiss once. He does it. Wait! Well, I never want him to I'll have you know! Just once, it only happens once."

As Wales tripped over his words, England found that he was not surprised at all. What surprised him more was that it was a while ago and Wales had not mentioned it until now. If it was earlier England could have locked France up in a room or something and shove food through a cat flap or something.

It took him a few moments of realizing the reason it sounded familiar was because of Harry Potter. Long time since he had thought of that series.

"I don't care what he does," England managed. "He kisses people all the time."

"Yes... you do!" Wales protested. "Remember he and Scotland... both fighting together against you? You deck Scotland in the face because you... you believe something's going on between them! Because France is yours! I... always hear about these things. Don't pretend it's not true."

England groaned again. He could remember it too well. "I was young then." He picked up his napkin so he could cough into it. "And a bit more naive."

"You should both get over yourselves!" Wales blurted out loudly and much more quickly than he usually spoke. "Why do you keep going back to him?"

The words were like being struck in the face. "I do not!" England flushed, that morning too fresh in his memory for him to be able to follow through with the lie.

"...yeah. Right." Wales nodded.

England pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the entire conversation to go away. Wales poked at his mug of tea before picking it up.

"You can't lie... everyone knows you care."

England did not respond.

"And as long as you care... you can at least stop him from... well, overdosing."

"What?"

Wales looked surprised. "Am I... making something up? Or... am I really the only person who's noticed?"

"Noticed what?" England demanded. Wales bit his bottom lip.

"The... amount of pills France has been taking."

England turned his wheelchair around and headed back to the house.

* * *

Falling down the stairs did not hurt. That was confusing on its own. France knew he should be in pain, but he was not. And if he was not so furious with England he would have been more concerned. And it was not as if he had not heard England tell Scotland to stay there and watch him.

"Wha' did ye do?"

"_Ta gueule._"

Scotland rolled his eyes and left him alone, but France knew somehow he had ruined his chances of getting out of the house. And what was it he had done wrong?

England kissed him _back_! That stupid Nation was as much to blame as he was, if not more so, because it was _his_ fault they fell down in the first place!

France was infuriated. Only when Scotland brought him his laptop (saying Ireland had brought it by, which meant Ireland was in his house and that was not soothing France's mood at all) did France manage to distract himself with his work. And instant access to any information he wanted to know about the war. About time, he should have asked for this sooner.

Soon France found himself unable to feel anger. Or anything else for that matter. He stopped reading about the war and decided just to focus on himself.

"France!"

His name came from a voice he had not heard in so long, a voice he had not expected to hear for a while yet. France looked up from his laptop. "S-Spain? Spain!" He rose to his feet quickly, setting his laptop on the table. "How are you?"

"Same as always!" Spain smiled and just like that France knew he was lying. He did not need to even know about the war and what happened to be able to tell that Spain was lying. It was something that came with long association. He could see just how tired the Spaniard was. Still, just like always, he was trying to keep going as if nothing was wrong. France did not know how Spain did it. "But you! You... well..."

"As our dear friend would say, I look like shit. Correct?" Prussia had said that. It was months ago, but France had no doubts that it would still apply to now, especially as he knew Prussia had been just putting it nicely before. France sat back down on the couch, gesturing for Spain to take a seat as well, which he did.

"Took the words right out of his mouth," Spain laughed.

_Yes I did, little do you know..._ "I'm very good like that." France leaned back on the couch. _Now_ his back was beginning to ache a little. He should take some more pills for that, but right now he had to focus on Spain. "Which is why I can tell that you are lying, my friend. You are never always the same. You just manage to make everyone think you are. I have never met a better actor. Though Scotland can project a pretty good Wales. You should ask to see it."

It was hilarious, actually. Especially as Wales had no idea what Scotland was doing.

"Sounds like a plan," Spain responded cheerfully, completely ignoring his first point.

France narrowed his eyes. He knew Antonio had not missed it, he knew Antonio knew exactly what he was referring to. He was not going to let the other try and pretend otherwise.

"I'm tired Francis." Spain rubbed at his eyes as he had been trying not to since he had come in. "I don't have a right to say so, but–"

"Antonio." France tried not to sound angry, but as soon as Spain had started saying those words his anger had started coming back. He was not going to let the other make himself suffer like England had. England was an idiot. He was not going to let the same thing be said of Spain. "You have every right. Don't dare make yourself a martyr like _Eyebrows_."

"Now that's not a nice thing to say about your spouse."

The words fell on Francis like a sheet. His arms were starting to hurt now. He really had to take some more pills. He must have heard Spain wrong, or Spain must have said it wrong. Because there was no way Antonio could have said what he thought he did.

"Spouse?" he questioned. "What spouse?"

Spain looked surprised. "England of course!"

This was really not a good joke to be pulling now. France wondered if Prussia had put Spain up to it. "What the hell Spain."

Spain sighed, leaning back, head now propped up by the other arm of the couch. "You're telling me, _mi amigo_..." Antonio started, hesitating for a single moment before finishing his sentence. "Arthur never told you he had to marry you to keep you from wasting away in your sleep?"

Francis could not comprehend it.

_Pourquoi ne me l'a-t-il pas dit?_

Why had no one told him this? And how could Arthur, after doing such things and not even asking or telling or mentioning anything about this... how could Arthur tell _him_ to leave him alone? How could he say they were over when he could not just tell him the reason?

"_Le bâtard. Cet horrible... Pourquoi ne me l'a-t-il pas dit? Pourquoi il dirait ces choses, si il..._" Francis dropped his head into his left hand.

The both stayed quiet. Francis was so absorbed he payed little attention as Antonio bid him farewell and left.

* * *

England opened the medicine cabinet to find proof. So many bottles of pills were gone. From there he went to France's room, finding the trash bin and staring into it. Containers and containers, emptied of their contents, were in there. England felt both numb and angry. How had he not noticed? How had France managed to get away with this? Why would he do this to himself?

No wonder France was not in pain after falling down the stairs. It was a miracle the Nation could feel anything with as many pills as England guessed he had been taking.

Which meant he had to confront him and take any and all pills away from him.

He took several of the pill bottles and went to find France.

* * *

France rushed through the files, trying to find any evidence of the marriage document. England was home, his wheelchair was in here, but the study was now unlocked. France would find what he was looking for.

What had England taken from him while he was unconscious? It was the only reason he could come up with that England would not have told him. This marriage must benefit the island Nation in some way. France was going to figure out how and stop it.

_How dare he! How dare he do such a thing to me! That horrible..._

He found the paper, surprisingly not as hidden as France had thought it would be. The top desk drawer, the only papers there. He pulled them out and stared down at them, looking for the fine print, looking at what England might have been taking from him.

The fact he was not finding anything like that seemed impossible.

"What are you doing?"

He wheeled about to see England standing in the doorway.

"When were you planning on telling me about this?" France demanded, holding up the papers so England would not try and deny it. "When, England?"

England did not seem to care, holding up something of his own. "How many pills France? _How many pills_?"

"Don't change the subject!"

"This is more important, France!"

"I beg to differ."

"This is about your health!" England threw the containers on the ground, a few of them bouncing off to hit the wall, one rolling over to stop near the desk. "You're _drugging_ yourself! You'll kill yourself!"

"I am medicating myself," France corrected. "Over a period of many months, of which I needed to deaden pain."

"There were more empty bottles than were necessary for that!" England retorted.

"How do you know how much is necessary?" France demanded. England was seething, fists clenched. France readied himself, waiting for the moment when England might just decide to forget about the conversation and attack him.

"Because I was already medicating you!" England shouted. "In your food! More was already overdoing it, but you have been taking more than you should even if I wasn't!"

"And you find this more important than the fact you married me?" France exclaimed. He was not comprehending this. He was overdosing? He would have known! If something like that was occurring, France would have known! He was not interested in that conversation, he was more interested in the papers he still had in hand.

"Yes, I do!" England nodded. "Why do you care? It was to save your life, you thankless frog!"

"Liar!" France laughed. "I know you too well, nice try! You've once already made it plain and clear to me you would never do such a thing!"

"I said I did not _want_ to marry you for that reason!" England shouted through some coughs. "I didn't want to marry you _because_ you were dying! But you _were_ this time and I _had_ to! I didn't want to!"

France opened his mouth to retort when it hit him. England did not want to marry him.

For _this_ reason.

All of his anger suddenly drained from him, leaving him capable of thinking about it.

"I love you."

England balked, taking a few steps back and nearly falling backwards over his wheelchair. France took a few steps forward.

"I love you. You'd marry me for that reason, wouldn't you?"

"You _git_," England hissed. "You bloody fag! As soon as I can throw you out of this house, we're _divorced_. Got it?"

England headed to the door, nearly passing right by his wheelchair. He stopped, staring at it.

"...where's... Al..." England started to cough.

England left, slamming the door behind him, leaving France to try and comprehend what had just happened here. England had married him to save his life and for no other reason? He looked at the copy of the document once more to assure himself of the fact. England had married him to save him, for no other reason but that.

And France spoke of love in return. Why had he said those words? Through everything the two of them had gone through, bouncing back and forth between being together and fighting...

_I do. I love England._

For a while he did not want to believe it, but it was true. France loved England. He loved all of the arguments, won or lost, all of the fights, between just them or from them to another, all of the kisses, harsh and soft, all of the quiet conversations which had always been broken up by bickering and could possibly end with laughter. He loved their rivalry and their friendship.

_I love England_.

He sat back in the desk chair and thought about it for a while. The fact England had not told him sooner still hurt, but it was slightly understandable. Which meant France would have to reconsider everything else England had told him.

_Maybe I have been taking too many pills.

* * *

_

"Ta gueule" = _"Shut up."_

"Le bâtard. Cet horrible... Pourquoi ne me l'a-t-il pas dit? Pourquoi il dirait ces choses, si il..." _= "Bastard. That horrible... Why wouldn't he tell me? Why would he say those things if he really..."_

_Writing Wales is awkward, but my research tells me there are people that talk like this. I suppose being raised hearing such things is easier, but I miss my past tense._


	11. Maybe

**Maybe**

It was easier avoiding France than it should have been.

Not that France was not trying to talk to him. England locked himself up in his study while at home and ignored any knock at the door unless Llyr promised it was not France. Not that she understood why he did not want to see France. Then again, anyone other than a Nation could not completely understand a Nation's actions. And even then the Nations could not always fully understand each other.

"_What is wrong with Francis loving you?"_ Llyr asked. England broke another pencil.

"_Because, coming from him, those words mean nothing."_

Still, at least something England said seemed to have gotten through France's thick skull. Scotland told him France asked for his and Wales' help to wean himself off of the high dosage of pills he had been taking.

At least one good thing had come from that confrontation.

England found himself wondering what the point of avoiding France was. Nothing was happening. It was not as if he was going to change his mind. England knew what France wanted and he was not going to get it. So why was he postponing telling the other this?

By the time of the next UN meeting, England was still fighting with himself over the issue. Because of this he was barely paying attention to what was being discussed. He had not even noticed the fact they were on a break until he felt the hand on his arm.

"England. We need to talk."

The last time he spoke with Elizaveta she was unable to respond. It was strange hearing her voice. It was strange hearing her tell him that they needed to talk. So many things had happened since he had to take care of her. He turned toward her and waited.

"About Ludwig."

So much had happened since then, he had almost forgotten. That was another strange thing, one would have thought Ludwig would have seemed more important than England had come to think he was. Ludwig, who might be Germany. Germany, who had nearly killed France, who might have killed America.

"What about?"

Elizaveta did not respond immediately, simply laughing and withdrawing her hand from his arm. He did not quite understand that reaction and she must have realized that as soon as she acted. "I'm sorry." She smiled. "But you have no idea how glad I am to hear you speak again."

England was aware he could say the feeling was mutual, but instead he rolled his eyes. "What about?" he repeated.

"I just want to make certain you know..." As soon as the words escaped her Arthur knew what she was going to say and so he brought up his hand to stop her.

"I don't care, Liza. If Ludwig is Germany... I don't want to hear about it."

He really did not. He did not care. The longer no one knew, the happier the boy would be. The entire situation seemed to surprise Elizaveta.

"So you don't..." He shook his head.

"How old are most of us? Too old for this." Much too old to be dealing with such petty grievances. Not when there were more important things to do. England covered a cough. "I'm so tired of wars. I don't want to start another one with Germany. Especially if he's living in your house."

"We... don't know if he is Germany."

Yes she did. She would not have said it like that if she was not certain, would she? England was slightly surprised how much the idea of Germany being alive did not bother him. Just as surprised as he was when he realized how ignoring France was bothering him more than the fact one of the Nations who nearly tore apart the world was still alive.

This was ridiculous. They _were_ much too old to be dealing petty grievances. He would have to talk with France.

He shrugged.

"Thank you, Arthur."

Which was when the thought struck him. England caught Elizaveta's arm.

"Does North Italy know?"

Italy. England must have been so self-absorbed not to think of Italy when he had seen Germany. With everything that had happened, England still felt all of the guilt and more that he had when he had pulled the trigger.

England was suddenly aware of how quiet the room was. In the corner of his vision he saw Spain stand up. England felt so stupid when he realized that Spain must have heard their entire conversation.

"Something has come up. I have to go." Spain was leaving.

The answer was yes, Italy knew. Italy had been seeing him. Now that Spain knew there would be another war.

"Wait! Spain!"

Elizaveta was on her feet, running after the other Nation. England dropped his head into his hands, ignoring Scotland's question as his brother sat back down.

_I'm an idiot. And I've just killed either Germany or Spain._

England did not want to know which one it would be and he dreaded the moment he knew was coming. The moment when another war would be declared.

* * *

Francis wondered whether he would be able to get Arthur to talk to him before he would go and lock himself up in his study.

"England knows about you kissing me," Erin said.

"Really?" Francis responded, not caring so much. "Okay."

Erin was a bit irritated, which was interesting to watch, but he seemed to forget about the conversation relatively fast and made the both of them lunch. They got into a conversation about fish and wire and frogs and never once did Erin insult him for any comment.

Erin almost did not seem as if he were related to his three brothers. Francis contemplated it. Almost like how the only way Matthew and Alfred seemed similar was because of their appearance.

Was. As in the past. Because Alfred was gone. Francis could never think about that and accept it. He wanted to fight the thought with everything he had left. But what good what that do anyone? It was fact – Alfred was gone.

He did not like that thought.

It was late by the time the front door opened. Francis glanced over immediately to see Roy and Brian coming in, both arguing about something like they usually were. Arthur came in after them, closing the door behind himself. Then he turned and his eyes fell on Francis.

"We need to talk."

They both said it as the same time, which was probably why neither of them could say something immediately afterward. Arthur glanced over in the direction his brothers had walked off in. Francis walked into the library, where they were unlikely to be interrupted. Arthur followed, shutting that door behind him as well.

"I love you."

"That's nice," Arthur responded, staring at the wall behind Francis. "I don't love you."

"But you don't want me to die," Francis commented. He was not hurt by Arthur's words. Probably just like Arthur did not believe Francis' words. They had both used these words on each other too often for either of them to be able to believe each other. Arthur finally looked back at him. He nodded.

"I don't want you to die," Arthur agreed. "We've both been here for so long. I cannot imagine you not being there across the water. But that's it, Francis. That is all."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"There is nothing I could say to you to make you change your mind." Francis did not ask the question, he stated it as a truth he happened to know. Arthur would respect him more for that.

"Yes," Arthur agreed, seeming to think that their conversation was about at an end. Francis' mind scrambled to think of something to hold on to the topic for a little bit longer.

"Just... tell me what I should do, Arthur."

Arthur seemed to speak before he thought about it.

"Stay here. For..." Arthur's words choked off, probably as he realized what he was going to say. If it was anything like what Francis thought he was going to say.

_Stay here. Forever._

Arthur stared at him for a moment longer before speaking once more. "You should always be there."

"You want me to be _here_?" Francis laughed softly after his correction. "Which is the same as saying you want me. And how is that different from how I feel?"

There might not be a forever between them, but that did not matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing except for the fact Francis for once just wanted Arthur. Just Arthur.

Arthur opened his mouth, but no noise came out. Francis smiled sadly, holding his hands up in surrender as he walked over to him.

"There is a reason we keep ending up back here, _mon amour_. Together."

"Because we're both barmy?" Arthur suggested weakly.

"The both of us," Francis agreed as he kissed him chastely on the lips. Arthur looked away, but did not say anything. "If you think about it... neither of us have changed much since we met. Our situations have simply changed."

"No." Arthur shut his eyes, shaking his head. "We've changed, Francis. We've changed a lot."

"Not our personalities. You are still as hot tempered as you used to be, despite turning into your definition of a 'gentleman'~"

"You are still too blunt and you fail to hide your real meaning between flowery words," Arthur sneered. Francis laughed.

"I could say the same about you... except for the flowery part."

"It's not like you don't have a temper either," Arthur reminded him.

"We must be too similar then," Francis commented. Arthur appeared to think about it, but Francis could see the tell-tale signs of him relaxing.

"I don't love you." Arthur's words held no anger, no hatred. Almost a sort of affection.

"And I love you."

Arthur kissed him, tongue and all, which was very typical of him. Not that Francis minded in the slightest. He pulled Arthur away from the door and into his arms.

"You don't taste like blood anymore," he mused aloud, lips brushing against Arthur's cheek. Arthur pulled back to look at him quizzically.

"What?"

"I'm so glad." Francis kissed him again with his hands on either side of Arthur's neck. It would be very hard to stop kissing him.

But Arthur never said to stop, so Francis did not have to.

* * *

Arthur startled awake, feeling the warmth of someone besides him. Francis. Arthur reached for the blanket before he realized he was still dressed. And so was Francis. They were sleeping in the same bed without having been drunk, without having to have been seduced, without having actually slept together.

To say that was strange was not even close to describing it.

He lay flat once more and stared at the ceiling. Francis' arm instinctively tightened around his waist. Arthur poked at his companion's arm experimentally.

It was strange, but it was happening. Arthur considered getting up and leaving as opposed to just going back to sleep.

_I don't love him._

No matter how many times he told himself that Arthur did not believe it. He found himself turning and putting his arms around Francis.

Arthur felt as if so much weight had been taken off of him.

_I don't hate him._

Arthur laughed quietly into Francis' shoulder.

_Well, maybe I love you Francis. I'll give you that. Maybe I love you.

* * *

_

_On to talk about something important._

_I know people like set pairings... starting off with a story and knowing that eventually this one thing will happen. I also know that the USUK pairing is the most popular pairing in this fandom. Not to say I do not like it, it is not my favourite pairing, but I will probably write it eventually in something because it is very humourous. But that is not my point. The thing is I try to never make my work look like it _has_ to have a set pairing. I like to write like something might happen in real life, which means though I start off with one thing it does not mean it will happen. Characters have their own personalities and their own agendas. I would not try and change a character's personality just for my own wishes. I try and keep everyone IC in the setting I have given._

_But for pairings... I can understand why someone might ask, "are you intending 'this pairing' or 'this other pairing'?" But as real life barely ever has 'love at first sight' or 'your first boy/girl/whatever/friend is your only and life-long partner', neither will my stories. Unless I am making fun of the fact or something, but it will never be that two dimensional (sorry Kiku!). And there are more types of love than just_ romantic_. Family love. Friend love. 'Atta girl!' love. 'I love tacos' love. Many assumptions and connotations are put onto the word love when it is said, but it is a much wider spectrum than this. I think this is something everyone knows, but not as many people think about. Especially when it comes to fanfiction._

_Maybe that is taking this a little too seriously. But hell, this is practice for my own writing. I can do what I want~! And I am glad you all read and respond to it, because it means I am doing something right.  
_

_So, to sort of answer the question people have been asking (any of them, really): maybe, maybe not. I have given England and France many romantic relationships in their past because if you look into their history I believe it would be a fair judgement to make of their relationships. The wonderful thing about Hetalia is the fact that history can be portrayed in many ways by these characters. And I _assure_ you... at _least one more_ relationship will be explained in this next and last chapter. So _many more_ will show up in the sequel and prequel. Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and caring. The last chapter will be posted next week.  
_


	12. When Decided

**When Decided**

A week later found the house somewhat empty.

"They clean up my house fast," Wales told France cheerfully. "Now it is fit enough to live in... again!"

"So I take it you're going to go and live in it." France would miss seeing Wales every day, but Wales looked too happy for him to mention any. Thankfully his arms were fully functional. He could cook his own food and not have to put his life in the hands of England's cooking.

"Well... yeah!"

"_Je suis très heureux pour toi._"

"Um... thanks."

France was not certain if England was happy with the fact they were the only two in the house after that, but as Francis mentioned, Arthur had his room back so what did he have to complain about? Of course, that was before he remembered the British lived to have something to complain about and it would not take long for England to find something unsatisfactory about the arrangement.

"You can throw me out of the house now," he mentioned in passing. Arthur looked up from his tea.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" There was no venom in that sentence, no anger.

"You said as soon you could throw me out of the house..." Francis reminded him, raising both of his hands in surrender. "We could always test out your strength, if you wanted~"

"Shut up." Arthur went back to reading his book. "And make me breakfast."

Francis laughed so hard and so long he nearly fell over. Arthur threw his book at him, but it simply ended up sliding near the refrigerator. He hid his own grin behind his teacup.

"Is this your way of asking me to move in?"

"Move in?" Arthur looked shocked. "Heavens no! How would I deal with you everyday?"

"You _have_ been dealing with me everyday," Francis reminded him. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"And ignoring you half the time. Be reasonable, Francis. We couldn't live with each other for very long without killing each other."

"We've done it before." Francis joined him at the table. Arthur looked thoughtful.

"You cannot stand the rain."

"_Non! Bref, c'est vraiment..._"

"In a few more months of being well, you would want to go back to your country and you'd want me to come with you," Arthur continued. "I wouldn't want to go and we would argue over it. Then, after both deciding this was a stupid argument, we would break up and end up in our own houses hating each other."

Francis pouted, hooking his left leg around Arthur's right leg. "How harsh..."

"I'm just saying it straight," Arthur grinned, leaning over the table slightly. "The fact you are only complaining about it means you agree." Francis was very conscious of Arthur's left foot trailing up the inside of his thigh.

"So you are telling me to pack my bags while you are groping me."

"You started it," Arthur rolled his eyes. "And you don't have any bags to pack. I'm not kicking you out, Francis, you just don't live here. Believe me, we'll both be happier this way."

"I'd be happier with y–"

"And don't even start with that romantic crap, dear." Arthur smirked. "Doesn't work."

"But, Arthur! You _love_ anything dealing with romanticism," Francis taunted, his lips right in front of Arthur's. As soon as Arthur moved forward, Francis sat back in his chair. Which was right when Arthur's foot pressed a little too hard forward.

"But you suck at it," Arthur said as he left Francis to writhe on the floor. Francis groaned.

They were married and Arthur still played hard to get.

* * *

When Francis left the house was too empty.

It was only because he had gotten so used to company lately. Arthur had lived a lot of his life with his house consisting of only him. It was nothing new. And considering how long it had been since it had just been him in his house... Arthur felt relaxed.

This lasted for about an hour before he began missing the company a Nation could provide.

_Funny, considering I would lock myself in my study to get away from everyone else,_ Arthur reminded himself.

"_You sure you did not want him to stay?"_

"_It was not a question of whether I wanted him to stay,"_ Arthur told Llyr. _"I just know we would not last that long that way."_

"_But you love him."_

"_Maybe,"_ he admitted with a wry smile. _"But I've thought that one before. I am just being smarter about it now."_

"_There could still be another solution."_ She shrugged. She shrugged because she wanted there to be an easier solution. If there was, Arthur could not think of one. At least, not one for right now.

There was a knock on the door. Arthur nearly wheeled himself backwards before he remembered he was no longer in a wheelchair. Shaking his head, he rose to his feet and headed to the front door. He opened the door to see someone he was not expecting to see.

"Matthew."

"Arthur!" Matthew blinked. "Are you all right, eh? You're up! I mean, Francis told me, but I–"

"I know, I know," Arthur sighed. "Calm down Matthew, it's all right."

"Are you okay?"

"Last time I checked." Arthur nodded. Matthew looked relieved at that. "What brings you here, Matty? I know you aren't here to see me." Matthew opened his mouth to protest and Arthur shook his head. "I wasn't letting anyone see me, you know that."

"I... came to see Francis, eh."

"He's not here anymore." The sudden panic which came to Matthew's face was both sad and humourous. "I mean he went home."

"Oh." Matthew nodded, relieved and embarrassed by his sudden leap to conclusions. "Well..."

"Do you want a cup of tea, or should you head off to his house before dark?" Arthur asked. Matthew looked conflicted. Arthur shook his head. "Go and see France."

"I just wanted to say," Matthew spoke up quickly, before rethinking his words once more. "I... Now that the storms are over... I'm going out to look for Alfred."

_Look for Alfred_. Arthur felt numb, but that way his thoughts could keep coming. Could he still be out there?_ I closed myself off because I did not want to deal with the truth if he is not still alive. But..._

"By yourself?"

"No." Matthew shook his head. Arthur suddenly remembered the subject between him and Japan that Japan could not speak about, that England could not ask about.

"With Japan?"

"No, actually... with Ivan, eh."

Which meant Kiku was still on his own.

"As long as someone is keeping an eye on him." Arthur thought about it. Thought about it and came to a decision.

_I am going to go look for America._

"Good luck, Matthew. Find him."

Matthew smiled. "I will." And though it might not be Matthew who found him, neither had any doubts that someone would.

* * *

"_Mes excuses..._ I haven't gotten to the dusting yet."

At least his house was not in shambles, which was something that Francis had been very much afraid of. It was much better off than he had thought it would be, which reaffirmed the thought that someone else had to have been here and cleaned things up while he was staying at Arthur's place. Whether it was Arthur or one of his brothers Francis was not certain. He was not going to ask. If none of them mentioned it, they would not want to talk about it.

"No problem, eh. I didn't come to burden you with cleaning up for me," Matthew responded as he sat down, setting the glass Francis had given him on the table. Francis looked at the Nation he had raised in admiration. He knew why Matthew was here. He could tell by the way Matthew looked like he was ready to go somewhere.

Francis might not agree that what Matthew was going to do was going to yield any results, but he could appreciate the effort. Appreciate the effort and hope that maybe, against all odds, that it would be successful.

"So, you're finally going to go looking for America?" he questioned. Matthew blinked, obviously surprised.

"Yeah, with Ivan. I think he misses having someone to argue with as much as he argued with Al."

Francis was not certain about that, America and Russia did a bit more than just argue. Unless Matthew considered arguing to include fists and weapons. But he could believe that Russia was irritated he had nothing to do with America's fall. He could also believe that for some reason Russia enjoyed betting beaten up by America. Masochist and sadist all in one package. Very disturbing.

Not that Francis had a right to talk. To get into Arthur's pants meant one had to be a masochist on some level.

"You mean... beat up?"

"That too." Matthew sighed. "Either way, he has started missing him. And he used to try to convince me not to go! Ivan's really a big baby, eh."

"A _very_ large one," Francis snickered. He quickly sobered up. "I hope you find him, Matthieu."

"Things can only get better from here," Matthew said earnestly. "Only better."

"_Tôt ou tard_," Francis agreed, lifting his glass. "And all we can do is our best... to get to that point."

Glass clinked together and they both downed the contents of their glasses.

* * *

"Alfred is alive."

Roy continued to stare at him.

"And I'll find him."

Roy was inclined to tell Arthur that he thought that would be a waste of time. America might be alive, but Roy was certain Alfred was not. What was left of America was likely to turn into something else. Reintegrating back into the abandoned states and cities... a lot was going to change. And in the end it was probably not going to be Alfred.

If he was not dead already and a new America now born. And a new America now born did not mean it was going to be Alfred at all. It could not be. Too much had changed since when Finland and Sweden first saw him. Since he had chosen Arthur to raise him.

Roy looked at Arthur and could see that Arthur believed his words completely. There was no doubt, no hesitation. He sighed.

"Ye're in denial," he said. "An' America cannae be alive. But–" he cut in before Arthur could retort. "Ai'm proud o' ye. Ai could nae be more proud o' ye, whe'er 'e's alive or nae."

He hugged him. Partly because of being proud and partly because he knew that Arthur would protest against getting a brotherly hug.

"Ew, get off me Scotland!"

Roy chuckled and eventually Arthur stopped protesting.

"Ye're still short."

"Okay, let go of me, wanker!"

* * *

They had spent one straight week out here. No results.

"You were lucky... marrying him because he asked you."

Kiku looked over at him blankly. "You are lucky. You married France and he is still here."

Arthur was somewhat surprised by Kiku's words. Thinking about it though, he should not have been. He laughed, watching the cold air give a form to his response. "I think we both could have wished for better," he admitted.

"Better situations," Kiku reaffirmed. "As for the people... we could not have asked for anything more."

Arthur considered it. Kiku's complete faith and dedication to Alfred was both alien for a Nation and refreshing for a life. It made him feel ashamed, all of that time he wasted just feeling sorry for himself. Meanwhile Kiku had been out here since as soon as he was able to. Looking for so long all on his own.

"Do you think we are getting closer?" Arthur inhaled, tasting the night rain. Other than for the rain it was silent. Just the rain and them.

No Alfred.

"We always are, England. We will find him soon."

Kiku's boss called him back for a meeting. They said their goodbyes and exchanged their promises to contact each other before returning to the continent of North America. Arthur wondered where Matthew and Ivan were right now, whether they were going to be more successful than he and Kiku.

He was tired, but an accomplished tired. Needing a rest that he had finally earned. He would return home, rest, and come back.

But Arthur knew the place he was going to return to was not going to be home.

* * *

One might think after more than one thousand years of existence that one might get tired of going to work. They would be right, but after being unable to for a while, France found that he was grateful to get back into the swing of things. See his people, his government, find what had changed during his immediate absence.

There was never the few awkward days in returning. He was back into his niche instantly. Back to talking with his people, discovering important and less important facts and rumours.

And talking in French all of the time. He certain missed doing that with people who would respond in the same language and not stare at him as if he were a freak.

Finally he would return home to try and put it into some semblance of order. This day he returned home to see someone sitting on his doorstep.

"Don't you miss your rain?" Francis asked the other Nation. Arthur looked up at him.

"I missed you already."

Francis laughed as Arthur rose to his feet. His laughter slowly faded away as Arthur held a red rose out to him.

"_Je n'avais pas l'intention de tomber amoureux de toi,_" Francis admitted, taking the rose from Arthur's fingertips. "_Mais... je t'aime vraiment._"

"Shut up," Arthur grumbled, blushing all the way to his ears. "_Je... Je ne sais pas si je t'aime. Mais... je sais que je te veux_."

"I can live with that." Francis smiled. After all, he was pretty certain by this point he knew what Arthur really meant by saying those words. The way he said them told Francis everything.

Arthur loved him.

He slid the flower into Arthur's hair and kissed him.

* * *

"Je suis très heureux pour toi" = _"I am very happy for you."_

"Non! Bref, c'est vraiment..." = _"No! Well, it actually..."_

"Mes excuses..." = _"My apologies..."_

"Tôt ou tard" = _"Sooner or later."_

"Je n'avais pas l'intention de tomber amoureux de toi. Mais... je t'aime vraiment" = _ "I did not mean to fall in love with you. But... I do love you."_

"Je ne sais pas si je t'aime. Mais... je sais que je te veux" = _"I don't know if I love you. But... I know that I want you."_

_The end of another story! Not as spectacular as my last, I must admit, but I knew that was going to be the case. It was a little more informative and a little more just downright depressing. Hopefully it has wet your appetites for the prequel, of which I think will be more epic than either of them. But first things first, I am now going to write the sequel to Comedy of Errors, titled Much Ado About Everything. There is a poll on my profile which will establish my updating schedule. Let me warn you – the more times I update a week, the later I will probably put up the story. School is in session, I am trying to find a job in this suffering economy... all of the fun real life stuff which puts fanfic writing on the back burner. But I like being able to give you all a consistent updating schedule. Helps me with my organizational skills._

_A shout out to my reviewers – I know school has started, but I am very happy with the fact you all managed to give me some feedback so I knew people were still reading, wondering, and caring! EmoLollipop, crimson-obsidian-rose, Hispanic Tenshi, spider wench, Gigi, WhimsicalShmoo, AnimeDutchess, LaRequinne, Tanya Tsuki, I Spazz With Pizzazz... anyone I forgot to mention, and those who only reviewed once or twice._

_I want to thank everyone who helped my out with my languages, especially Gigi. Any time I can entertain others and be taught at the same time is a good time._

_Next, I want to say how happy I was for all of the responses to my last author's note. The fact that I struck so many chords and you all understood pleases me. Sometimes we on the internet (especially those who write fanfiction) can miss the fact that some very open minds, intelligent minds, are here. Just because the rest of the world may think we are wasting our time is not so!  
_

_How about another omake, chickies? I know you will _love_ this one... Again, I will have to say 'read at your own risk'._

_Warning: Some non-Nations are in focus.

* * *

_

Some of them had gotten sick from the disease. Some had died. Some had lived, but barely. And here they were, somehow cut off from the rest of the world in a place which looked like it should function, but no longer did. Physical communication was not allowed into the outside world. They were the infected. And until those who were being tested upon had conclusions drawn upon them the groups of infected were forced to set up life where they saw fit.

Occasionally, but what had been becoming rarer and rarer, was they would find someone. Someone wandering aimlessly, someone just staying in one of the empty cities, who could not be bothered to leave, someone unconscious from whatever reason. Finding groups was wonderful. Finding individuals was a miracle. How could someone stay alone for that long, what had happened, where were they heading and planning to do all by themselves?

Their latest addition had been wandering down the ruins of Interstate 70. He looked like he had not eaten in a long time, which was surprising because finding food in towns was easy, it was not getting spoiled or rotten food that was difficult.

Jeffery Solomon usually was in charge. People did not mind – he had been mayor of a small town and some of what he knew could be applied to their small group, how to deal with people. So when the stranger woke up, he was the one sitting there to greet him.

"Howdy stranger." The man sat up, not slowly. He looked somewhat surprised by him. Not that Solomon blamed him, for who knew how long he had been out there alone. "Slow up there," he laughed, holding out a glass of water. "Here y'go."

He took the water and began drinking it, downing nearly the entire thing in a few gulps. Then came the expected coughing. Solomon helped him out with a few pats to the back. He was almost afraid to. They had all been through hell, but this man looked worse off than any of them, like he would fall apart as soon as Solomon touched him.

Had he been in Kansas City when the bomb went off? No, that was impossible. No one was alive from there from when that bomb went off. Thankfully most of the population had been able to evacuate by then.

"Thanks," the blond said. He rubbed at his eyes and Solomon took the other man's glasses from his jacket pocket and handed them over. One of the lenses was slightly cracked and both looked far from able to be cleaned, but they were still his. "Thanks."

"I'm Jeff Solomon, sort of in charge of this group of Displaced," he introduced. "What's your name?"

The man spoke without hesitation. "Alfred F. Jones."

"And what does the 'F' stand for?"

At that, Jones seemed slightly embarrassed. "It... doesn't really matter, does it? It's... Francis."

"Francis..." Solomon repeated. "Good name, what's wrong with it?"

"Well, it was actually payment for a favour." The newcomer looked down at the bed. "A guy helped me get out on my own and he made me change my middle name."

"That's a strange form of payment," Solomon laughed, suddenly hoping the other would not take offense at that. He did not seem to.

"He was a strange person," Jones responded.

"What did it used to be?"

"Huh?"

"Before you were forced to change... What did your middle name used to be?"

Jones stared at him for a minute before staring off into the distance. "Actually... Franklin."

"From the Middle English _frankelin_," Solomon recalled, from a class in a school which now seemed so long ago. It was probably empty now. "Means 'free man'."

Jones nodded slowly, which was strange. Not too many people knew the supposed origins of their names, it was all too old for people not into history to care much about. "That's always been very ironic to me."

"Oh?"

Jones did not seem ready to elaborate on that, not that Solomon minded. "I've... never told anyone any of that before."

"Glad to be in your confidence." Solomon patted him once more on the shoulder. "Welcome aboard, Jones."

* * *

_The prequel will be titled Destroying Alfred. No promises how soon it will be put up, but when it is that will be the title._

_Thanking you all,_

_Words_


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